


Last Sektober

by femvimes



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ankh-Morpork City Watch, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6188992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femvimes/pseuds/femvimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweetpea Hakim, the City Watch's newly-minted press liaison, has dealt with a lot of things in her life: racism, homophobia, and the death of her parents. Getting attacked while on the job and saved by a god that isn't her own is a new one. Seven-Handed Sek wants Sweetpea to be their avatar, but what are their motives? Combine this with Sweetpea's workplace crush, trying not to screw up in front of Commander Vimes, and dealing with those Times people, and Sweetpea is going to have a very interesting summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to AbsintheSpoons for beta-ing!

Sweetpea Hakim wanted to be a copper. Unfortunately, she realized this the day of her final exam at the Clerk's Guild school. She stood outside of the guild hall, her fellow trainees flowing all around her like a boulder in a stream, staring up at the big clock. Clerks were expected to be punctual, quiet, and always know what their master needed. They were helpful. And Sweetpea wanted to help people, oh yes she did. She just couldn't see that happening by filing particularly well, or being an exceptional scribe.

Sweetpea thought that this was when she had made her realization, but in reality it had happened the year before on the day her mother died. Nawar Hakim had been the one to optimistically name her daughter Sweetpea. She had also optimistically prayed to Offler every day instead of seeing a doctor for her sickness. The question Sweetpea had been turning over and over in her mind for the last year was "why were people so stupid?" But Mrs. Hakim died, leaving the family Klatchian Coffee stand to Sweetpea's older brother. He expected Sweetpea to finish school and help him run the stand, but she had been dreading this for months.

As elbows jostled her, Sweetpea heaved her bag over her shoulder and headed up the steps.

Three hours later, she headed back down the steps with two dozen of her fellow celebrating class members. Basalt knuckled loudly past, carrying two of his friends on his shoulders. Sweetpea smiled. Basalt worked nights in a meat packing freezer, and did his homework there as well. The whole class had helped him at some point or another, even though five years previous they'd all wondered what he was doing at the Clerk's Guild. Basalt had the right idea. Lots of up-and-coming troll businessmen needed trolls who weren't just good at busting heads, and could count past “many”.

Speaking of non-human clerks, someone caught Sweetpea around the waist and hugged her. She looked down to see Aksel Grabthroat.

"Hey, Sweetie!" the dwarf greeted her. Despite the fact that she was 107, Aksel acted about seven sometimes. Sweetpea forced a smile at the hated nickname.

"Hey, Aksel. Hard test, huh?"

"Eh, not really. I've already got job offers lined up from the Low King and--"

"Several important grags, I know. And good for you."

Aksel gave Sweetpea a puzzled smile, trying to work out if she was genuine or not, and continued on through the crowd. Sweetpea was being genuine. Good for Aksel for getting work down in a mine somewhere, as far away from Sweetpea as possible.

"Five years of being with her, and now we’re finally free," came a sigh from next to Sweetpea. She turned in surprise and delight.

"John! I'm hoping a deep-downer will hire her, and she'll be in a mine for life."  
She and John Enamel grinned at each other. When both of them realized that they had been doing it for slightly too long, they averted their eyes and coughed. John ran a hand through his hair and said,

"We're all meeting up for drinks at The Bunch of Grapes. Maybe the two of us can go and get squishi afterwards?"

"Thanks, John," said a hitherto unknown part of Sweetpea's brain that had been deciding something during the test, "but I have a job interview to go to."

She waved goodbye to a disappointed John and then wondered what the hell she'd just said.

\----------------

Pseudopolis Yard was right across from the Opera House on the Isle of the Gods. Fortunately, Sweetpea had never had occasion to go to either one. She’d walked past them often enough, on her way to see plays at the Dysk. The Yard was always bustling with coppers starting and ending their shifts, prisoners being brought in, and irate citizens complaining about something or another. Today was no exception. Sweetpea had to practically fight her way through a crowd of all species to get to the door. Once inside, she was greeted—or rather, yelled at—by the dwarf at the front desk.

“What do you want?” they barked. Sweetpea couldn’t tell if they were male or female. Her best guess was male, since they were wearing plain chain mail and unadorned helmet, but the female dwarves in the watch could be just as masculine as their counterparts.

“A job!” Sweetpea yelled back over the din. The dwarf looked her up and down in surprise. She knew she didn’t look like a guard. She was still in the dusty brown robes of a trainee clerk, and she could guess that clerks didn’t become guards unless they had a) failed miserably or b) were running from something.

“Wait there.” The dwarf jerked a thumb behind them to a small group of broken-backed chairs. Sweetpea went to sit down gingerly in one of them, the dwarf watching her the whole time. They were forced to stop staring when a troll came in holding two young men upside down in his—no, her—craggy hands.

“Dey was graffitin’ der Opera House,” the troll rumbled. The young men were struggling wildly in her grip. One of them still held a spray can.

“No we weren’t!” he protested.

“Put them down very gently, Lance-Constable Quartz,” the desk dwarf ordered. “Graffiting is a fining offense, not an arresting one.”

“Dey was resistin’ getting’ fined.”

One of the flailing boys bumped heads with the other and they both went limp.

“Ah. That’s different,” said the dwarf. “Take them down to the cells, we’ll hold them until their parents come to pick them up. And, uh, get Igor to revive them.”

Sweetpea’s attention was called away from this interesting discourse when a shadow eclipsed her vision. She looked up to see a beautiful women towering before her. Her short blonde hair and stripes indicated that she was Captain Angua, famous for definitely _not_ being the Watch’s first werewolf.

“Are you the clerk that’s looking for a job?” she practically demanded, hands on her hips.

“That’s me,” said Sweetpea, her mouth dry. She was not only intimidated by the woman’s looks, tone, and rank, but also that she could definitely _not_ rip out her throat if she chose. Sweetpea had never heard of the captain doing this, especially not to potential new recruits, but there was a first time for everything. However, after glancing her up and down, the captain seemed to see something in Sweetpea that she was looking for. She nodded decisively.

“We’ve been looking for someone like you for a long time, and now you show up asking _us_ for a job. Come on up to my office. Sorry, it’s a bit small.”

She turned on her heel and started back up the steps that she’d presumably come down. Stunned for a few seconds, Sweetpea sat there before getting up at breakneck speed to follow Captain Angua.

The office was small, barely enough room for a desk, filing cabinet, and chair for a visitor. This was where Sweetpea sat. Luckily, it was better than the chairs down in the main office. The back was intact, for one thing, and it had some semblance of padding. It did not match any of the other furniture, though. None of the furniture matched the other furniture. Sweetpea suspected that getting furniture for your office was entirely up to the inhabitant, and you had to settle for what you could find on the side of the road, buy second-hand, or—as it was in Angua’s case—pick out something serviceable from the commander’s attic.

“Now, I can’t say you’re not a godsend,” said Angua as she sat down opposite Sweetpea, “But I have to ask: why do you want to join the Watch?”

It was a question that Sweetpea had been trying to answer herself ever since she’d decided that she wanted to be a guard. The decision seemed so obvious, so natural, that it was difficult to put her reasons into words. Hesitantly, she said,

“It’s not just that being a clerk would be boring, because it would. And it’s not just that I don’t want to be stuck doing the books at the family coffee stand, because I don’t. It’s that I’ve seen too much bad in this world to not want to try and fix some of it. I don’t want to achieve world peace or anything silly like that,” she continued, as though world peace was some foolish ambition. “There are so many little things that can make a person’s life bad, and so many big things that can ruin the life of only one person. I want to put an end to some of those little things.”

She stopped when she saw Angua staring at her with a strange expression. Surprised, she realized that it was respect. It was not an expression she was used to seeing on the face of anyone she interacted with. Her teachers never respected any of their students, obviously, and her friends only looked at her with affection. She had been a decent, if slightly inattentive student, and if she ever surprised anyone it was why she would go to a clerk school when she was Klatchian. That disgusted her. People hardly raised an eyebrow at troll hairdressers and dwarf fashion designers, but if a Klatchian woman wanted to be a clerk everyone questioned her.

“I think you’ll fit right in here,” Angua said. “I would have you talk to Commander Vimes, but he’s at home for lunch right now.” She said this with a faint smile. Sweetpea would soon learn that the only person who could get Commander Vimes to go home during the day was his wife, and only then by severely guilting him. “You may have heard of the watch’s new bookkeeper and tax inspector, AE Pessimal?”

Sweetpea nodded. “A fellow graduate of the clerk’s guild. All the teachers were kind of disappointed when they learned he’d joined the Watch.” Though she didn’t say it, part of Sweetpea’s inspiration for joining the Watch came from Mr. Pessimal. If a former inspector for the Patrician could be a watchman, so could she.

“Mr. Pessimal has helped the commander a lot with his paperwork problem. Lately, Mr. Vimes has been looking for someone smart and well-versed in dealing with people to be the Watch’s press liaison. He’s tired of being interviewed by Mr. de Worde about every little case, and he wants to control what the Times knows about the Watch. There have been a few cases that would have been solved a lot sooner if all of the details weren’t revealed to the paper.”

The captain’s sour look showed that she was intimately familiar with such scenarios. To get her back in a good frame of mind Sweetpea said,

“So you want me to be the press liaison?”

Angua nodded. “With your clerk guild training, you’re the ideal candidate. Mainly you’ll have an office—or a desk, at least—here at the Yard but everyone starts on the street. Most new recruits get six weeks of training in the old lemonade factory, but since most of your job will be indoors we can skip straight to your probation. You do need some street training.” She flipped over a large pile of paper on her desk and scanned the bottom page. “It looks like we have space for a lance-constable in the Treacle Mine Road watch house. Flint is the corporal there. He’s one of our up-and-coming troll officers—reliable…solid…” She ran out of adjectives for Corporal Flint. “We wouldn’t put him in charge of the watch house if we didn’t think he could do it,” she said almost defensively. “And Constable Haddock is stationed there. He’s somewhat of a favorite amongst non-watchmen. You’re not to call him Kipper unless he gives you permission, understand?”

Her expression compelled Sweetpea to say something in assent.

“Understood, captain.”

“Good. How are your report-writing skills?”

“I’ve had proper grammar and sentence structure beat into my head for the last five years. I can give you some of my old essays if you want to read them—“

Angua looked a little panicky. “That won’t be necessary. You’re a clerk, I trust that you can write. You are a full clerk, aren’t you?”

“As soon as my grades come back for my final test, I’ll be a full member of the clerk’s guild.” Sweetpea privately added that her membership hinged on whether or not she passed the filing test, which she was sure she’d failed miserably. “That is, if I can be a guild member and a watchman.”

Angua thought for a moment. “I think you should stay a clerk, if they’ll let you. We had some problems with the alchemist’s guild when Sergeant Littlebottom became part of our forensics division. They seem to think they have the concept of alchemy trademarked, although none of them can figure out how to leave their guild house unexploded for more than a week.” She sighed, and straightened up. “Mr. Vimes will want to do a full interview with you tomorrow—he doesn’t want just anyone speaking for the Watch. Come in at ten, and if you’re hired we’ll swear you in and issue your uniform then.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sweetpea walked out of the Yard, feeling both jubilant and terrified. What on the Disc had she gotten herself into? All right, so she had a job—yay! It was with the Watch—oh no. She still didn’t know why she’d gone to them. It was on an impulse, yes, but most impulsive decisions didn’t result in life-changing job interviews.

She knew it would help to tell someone about it, and resigned herself to the fact that she was going to have to tell her brother first.

To put off that conversation, Sweetpea went back to the Clerk’s Guild School. All of her things were already packed—they fit into two suitcases. The dorms did not lend themselves to hoarding. Any items she really cared about were at home.  Whatever job she had, she was still going to have to live with her brother. That is, if he let her after today.

“I see you’re eager to leave,” came a voice from the doorway. Sweetpea looked up, and her heart fluttered.

Chelsea.

Tall, muscular, and with short-cropped blonde hair, Chelsea was almost as intimidating as Captain Angua. She leaned against Sweetpea’s doorframe and folded her arms. Chelsea always took off her clerk robes as soon as possible, and now she wore trousers and a shirtwaist with rolled-up sleeves.

“How d’you think you did on the test?” Chelsea asked.

“Fine.”

She said it levelly, but her mouth was dry. Damn! Chelsea still did this to her, even after all this time. Sweetpea could feel Chelsea watching her as she knelt down and opened her suitcase.

“Sweetpea—“ Chelsea said hesitantly. “I got a job with one of the nicer Lavish cousins. I’m going to make a lot. And…I think you should come with me.”

Sweetpea looked up in astonishment, a scarf slipping from her hands. Chelsea looked serious but nervous—and she was rarely nervous. Well, good. She always made Sweetpea nervous, and now it was time to return the favor.

She stood up. “Thank you, Chels. But I can’t just run off with you. I already have a job.”

The blonde woman made a noise of disgust. “Yeah, with your brother. I know that isn’t what you want.”

You haven’t got a clue what I want, Sweetpea thought. Mostly because I don’t know, either.

But she said, “No, it’s not with Hasan. I got a job somewhere else.”

Chelsea smiled, and it at least seemed genuine. “Sweetpea, that’s great! I know you weren’t going to do the books for a coffee stand your whole life.”

“That was never the plan in the first place.” Sweetpea crossed the room in two steps and put her hand on the door. “Now, please excuse me. I have to get changed.”

She shut the door on Chelsea’s disappointed face. At least Chelsea hadn’t gotten mad. An angry Chelsea was unpleasant to be around. She used to be angry all the time. Angry that Sweetpea wasn’t spending time with her, angry when Sweetpea talked to John, angry when they discussed their future. Chelsea had Sweetpea’s life all figured out. The trouble was, so had Hasan. Maybe that was why Sweetpea applied to work for the Watch. It was so far away from everybody’s expectations.

Sweetpea gratefully changed out of her heavy, scratchy robes and into a blue abaya. She hardly ever had the chance to wear this at school, and she doubted it would fit under her armor in the Watch. That was shame, because it was comfortable and looked good on her.

She folded a green headscarf over her hair and looked around the room. Prisons had bigger cells. She wasn’t going to miss this place.

She picked up her suitcases, kicked the door open, and strode briskly down the hall. Her mother always said something about opportunities and open doors. This was one open door she was going to run out of.

\-----------------

The Hakim Klatchian Coffee Stand sat on prime real estate at the edge of Sator Square. It was popular with students of various guild schools, and also workers on their way to the offices that overlooked the square. Sweetpea’s father had placed the stand close to a pub, in case anyone got too knurd while drinking. Their coffee was heavily watered down for the casual drinker, but every now and then somebody thought they could handle the Red Desert Special. Usually, they couldn’t.  

Since it was afternoon, there was only one customer at the stand. Sweetpea recognized him from the few times she’d gone to the temple on Octedays.

“Hello, Mr. Sadri,” she greeted him. “How goes the grocery business?”

“Sweet’pea!” he said with delight. “I haven’t’ seen you since you’ were small! How’ are thing’s?”

“They’re going very well, thank you,”

Sweetpea saw her brother looking eagerly at her out of the corner of his eye. He was excited for her. Running the stand together was his dream. She didn’t look forward to disappointing him.

“Are you mov’ing back in?” Mr. Sadri asked noticing her suitcases. “You we’re up at the Clerk’s Guild, right?”

“Yes, and I’ve just finished up today. Five years of training, all done.”

It felt good to say that out loud. Well, she had accomplished something, hadn’t she? Whatever came afterwards, she had finished her schooling. She should be proud.

Mr. Sadri was certainly proud. He beamed at her.

“Imagine that, a Klatchian’ clerk train’ed in Ankh-Morpork!”

“Here’s your Morporkiano,” said Hasan quietly. He pushed the drink over the counter to Mr. Sadri. The man took it and raised it to Sweetpea.

“Good’ luck, Sweetpea,” he said, and walked away across the square.

“Welcome home, little sister!” Hasan said. He came out from behind the counter and gave Sweetpea a hug. They didn’t usually hug, and this made Sweetpea feel so guilty that she nearly chickened out. But she took a deep breath and said,

“Can you shut down the stand for a little bit, Hasan? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

\-----------

“But why the Watch?” Hasan repeated for the third time. They had already circled Sator Square twice, and now found themselves in the Plaza of the Broken Moons. This was going exactly as Sweetpea hadn’t hoped.

“I don’t know, Hasan.” She sat down wearily on a bench. At the other end, a beggar sat grumbling to herself. Hasan stood in front of Sweetpea, looming slightly.

“But we had a plan—“

“No, Hasan!” she burst out. “ _You_ had a plan. You and Dad and Mom—you all had a plan. Haven’t you been doing fine without me for the last year? I can still help you with the books. I’ll be living with you—if you let me.”

Hasan quickly sat down next to her. “If I let you? Sweetpea, it’s your home too. I’m not throwing you out over this. I just wished you’d talked to me, that’s all.”

“I couldn’t be at the stand day in, day out.” Sweetpea looked out over the plaza, at the picturesque view of an old woman beating a young man with her handbag. “There’s too much of Mom and Dad there.”

Hasan squeezed her shoulder. “It’s tough being an orphan,” he said. “But we’ve been doing it separately. Now that you’re home, we can be orphans together.”

Home had seemed so small when Sweetpea lived there with her family. There was only one bedroom, the main living area, and the kitchen. Her parents had put all their money into the stand, and were grateful just to have a place to live. The Ankh-Morpork housing shortage was felt most keenly by immigrants and minorities.

Now the apartment was just empty. Since a bachelor had been living in it, it could use a good cleaning. Hasan had set up a futon on the floor of the bedroom for her, though. When Sweetpea saw it, she got a lump in her throat. Despite the fact that he was her older brother, he really did want to be with her.

“You don’t mind sharing a wardrobe, do you?” Hasan asked. He gently pushed past her to get through the doorway. “I figured all of our clothes would fit.”

“Oh, they’ll fit,” Sweetpea agreed. “They fit in a smaller wardrobe at school.”

Hasan put her suitcases down, and jerked his head towards the door.

“You get unpacked. Literally make yourself at home. I’m going to make us some dinner. Curry sound all right?”

“Curry sounds amazing.”

Home-made Klatchian curry had been very hard to come by the last few years. Curry from restaurants didn’t taste the same, and curry served at the guild school was so far from actual curry that it could hardly be called food.

As she unpacked, the smell of spices and chickpeas filled the apartment. The heat of summer was making itself felt in Ankh-Morpork, and the warmth of the stove didn’t help much. Sweetpea opened the tiny bedroom window. It looked out from the fourth floor into a trash-filled alleyway. Lilac bushes covered the wall opposite and hung heavy with flowers. Sweetpea breathed in deep—not the best decision in Ankh-Morpork—and could just barely smell the scent of the lilac.

Although Sweetpea could not have known it, it was this very smell that was making Commander Vimes on edge. Also, his son was turning two soon, and Sybil had hinted that Lord Vetinari just might be invited to the party. Having the patrician in your house was enough to make anyone anxious.

“Try not to scare her, sir,” Angua advised the commander. “I think I’ve already done enough of that. We don’t want her to be so afraid of you that she or doesn’t accept the job.”

“I’ll put on my best friendly face,” Vimes said with some sourness. He didn’t know where the rumors about him being mean came from, he really didn’t. Sure, his nickname was “Old Stoneface”, and all right, maybe he had a bit of a temper, but that was no reason for recruits to be terrified of him.

“Apparently we need to include as many minorities as possible, and this one’s a twofer,” Vimes said. He glanced at the paperwork in front of him. “Klatchian _and_ a woman. The only other Klatchian we’ve got is—“

“Constable Darzi over on King’s Way,” Sergeant Angua supplied helpfully.

“Yes, I was just about to say, Darzi.” Vimes sighed. “I do know _some_ of these things, sergeant. The Watch Committee likes me to keep track of the minorities. We’ve got a lot of dwarf and troll officers now, but I at least know the name of our Klatchian officer.”

“Appointment scheduled for ten ay-em!” said a perky voice from a box on Vimes’s desk. “Interview with Press Liaison!”

Vimes’s hand reached out to slap the box, but he stopped himself. Force of habit.

“Thank you, gooseberry,” he said instead.

 “I can smell her right outside, sir,” said Angua. “Shall I show her in?”

“Please. And then stay in here, will you? We don’t want anyone saying I bit the new recruit’s head off.”

“Ha, ha, sir,” said Angua, and went to open the door.

Sweetpea had debated what to wear. Finally, she decided on something professional, but not too fancy. When Sergeant Angua opened the door for her, she was wearing her only pair of trousers and a short white abaya that only went down to her knees. A lot of her female friends wore trousers more often than skirts these days, but Sweetpea still only felt comfortable wearing them under robes or a dress.

Sweetpea walked with nervous, halting steps to the chair in front of Vimes’s desk. She had never seen the man up close before—just from far away at ceremonies or at a blur as he chased a criminal right past her. He was a lot shorter than she expected. The scariest-looking thing about him was the scar across his eye. There were all kinds of rumors about how he had gotten the scar, when it had shown up two years ago. Vimes probably encouraged these rumors. That sort of thing helped build up a person’s reputation.

“Sweetpea Hakim?” he said gruffly.

“That’s me, sir.”

“Have a seat.” He gestured to the seat next to her, and she gingerly sat down. Vimes didn’t look at her, but was reading a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. Sweetpea looked behind her at Sergeant Angua, who was lounging gracefully in the corner. She gave Sweetpea what was probably intended to be an encouraging smile, but it had a little too much tooth.

“Well, your record is good,” Vimes finally said. He looked up at her. “And you’re willing to be on probation in a Watch house for six weeks? It may turn out to be four.”

“Yes, sir.” She was rather looking forward to working outside. It would make a difference from all the hours she’d sat indoors at school.

“You’ll be dealing with all kinds of criminals and other suspicious characters,” he said, in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe her.

“Yes, sir, I had rather expected that. This is the Watch.”

There was laughter from behind her, but Sweetpea sat stock-still. She stared at a point to the right of Vimes’s head.

“Quite right,” he said, and nodded. “Now—once you become press liaison, you’ll be answerable directly to me, no matter what de Worde says. You’ll have your own desk in here, maybe even your own office if we can clean out one of the rooms. Myself or one of the other officers will tell you what gets released to the press. Then you’ll take that information to the _Times_ office, unless they’re extremely eager and come to get it from you.”

“Just the _Times_ , sir?” Sweetpea asked. She thought of all the other newspapers and magazines that had sprung up after the widespread use of the printing press. They were all going to want exclusive scoops from the Watch.

“Just the _Times_ ,” Vimes confirmed. “I may not like de Worde, but I at least trust his integrity. We try not to talk to any of the other reporters anyway. Now, you’ll be on probation not only as a Watch officer, but also as a liaison. With minor incidents, make two copies of your report and give one to the _Times_. Anything major, Angua or Captain Carrot will tell you what to write. We need the _Times_ to get used to working within our parameters.”

“You just…want me to send my reports to them without you reading them first?” Sweetpea asked, a little surprised.

“That’s why you’re on probation,” Vimes said evenly. “Gods know I haven’t got time to read every report that you send over there.” He bent over his desk and scribbled something. “Your starting-out rank will be lance-constable, but you’ll be bumped up to corporal if you become a full-time liaison. Your pay will be $30 a month at first, with armor allowances—“

“So, I’m hired?” Sweetpea interrupted. She hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

Vimes stared at her. “Are you an agent working for anyone?”

“Uh, no.”

“Do you have your own nefarious agenda?”

“Not at the moment.”

Vimes stood up. “Good enough for me.” He produced a badge from beneath the papers on his desk and swung a shilling on a length of string. “Your badge, number 237. Here’s the King’s Shilling. Hold it while you recite the oath. And don’t laugh.”

Just like that, she was a copper. By 10:30, Sweetpea was being fitted for her armor and issued her official truncheon. By 11:00, Sergeant Angua sent her on her way to the Treacle Mine Road watch house along with an escort, presumably in case she had a sudden attack of not wanting to be a copper.

“Treacle Mine Road’s a good one,” said Corporal Shoe. He was one of the first zombies Sweetpea had ever interacted with, and she couldn’t help staring at his ear. The stitching was coming undone, and it looked as if it was going to fall off every time he smiled.

“I remember the original one, you know,” he said confidentially. “That was when I was still alive, of course.”

“Of course,” Sweetpea echoed uncertainly.

“This one’s our newest watch house. It had to be rebuilt after a dragon burned it down.”

“I remember that,” Sweetpea said with a shudder. “What a scary week. I was only thirteen.”

Corporal Shoe made a face. “Were you really? Ye gods, I’m getting old.”

He had offered to help carry her new uniform and weapons, but she was afraid that his arms would fall off if he carried anything too heavy. She didn’t want to be the one that de-armed a corporal on her first day.

Even as she walked, she was learning. One of the most distinctive things about watchmen, besides the uniform and one-size-fits-nobody helmets, was their walk. She had heard it called “proceeding”. Already, it was getting on her nerves. It was a wonder coppers ever got anywhere, considering the speeds they went. She had to practically limp just to stay at the corporal’s pace.

“Anyway, we’ve got some good people stationed there right now,” Corporal Shoe continued. “Everybody loves Constable Haddock, of course, and then there’s Dars Ironcrust. She’s good to have with you in a fight. At least, it’s good that she’s on your side and not fighting against you.”

“Who else?” Sweetpea asked.

“Hmm…the rosters change so fast. Let me see. There’s Constable Pediment. You probably won’t see him much, as he spends a lot of times on the rooftops. There’s Corporal Flint, of course, who is quite smart considering. Oh, and Constable Fittly.” The way he said it made Sweetpea pause.

“Something wrong with Constable Fittly?”

“Oh, no,” said Shoe hastily. “Wouldn’t hear a word said against him. But he’s…a lad, you know?” Shoe looked uncomfortable, or at least he turned a slightly darker shade of gray. “Loves to play jokes.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Sweetpea grimly. She had dealt with bullies before.

“And here we are,” Corporal Shoe announced. Sweetpea looked up at the door of the Treacle Mine Road watch house. “Should I show you inside? The commander sent a clacks ahead—they’re expecting you.”

“No, it’s all right.” She didn’t want everyone’s first impression to be that she needed a babysitter. “Thanks for walking me over here, Corporal Shoe.”

“My pleasure.” The corporal tipped his helmet, making his head teeter dangerously on his neck.

After he had gone, Sweetpea turned back to the door. Should she knock? No, that was silly. Even a citizen would just walk right in. Suddenly, she was very nervous of what her new squad mates thought of her. Sweetpea took a deep breath and opened the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The layout of the Treacle Mine Road watch house was a condensed version of Pseudopolis Yard. Most of the room was an open floor, some of the space taken up by desks. To the right was a staircase that presumably led up to the corporal’s office. There was even a grumpy-looking dwarf at the front desk. Their beard was blonde and neatly-kept, both rare occurrences on a dwarf.

The dwarf scowled at her, or at least that’s what it looked like. It’s hard to convey much more than a scowl with the limited space you’ve got between beard and helmet. Then they saw the uniform in Sweetpea’s arms and stood up. This made them marginally taller.

“You must be the new lance-constable?” they asked.

“Sweetpea Hakim. That’s me.” Sweetpea stuck out a hand from beneath the pile of clothes. The dwarf came forward and shook it.

“Constable Dars Ironcrust. She/her pronouns, please.”

Well, that was new. Most dwarfs didn’t tell you their gender right off the bat, they waited for you to guess or rather shyly told you after several months.

“Er…nice to meet you, constable,” said Sweetpea. “Do you want to know my pronouns?”

“Only if you want to tell them to me,” said Constable Ironcrust briskly. She yelled up the stairs, “Oi! Kip! Get down here, the new lance-constable is in!”

There was the sound of a door shutting, and then feet thumping downstairs. The first thing Sweetpea saw of “Kip” was his gangly legs and arms—this man had more limb than he knew what to do with. The next body part revealed was his torso, wearing a well-fit but well-battered breastplate. Finally was his head—messy brown hair covering a genial, smiling face.

“Welcome!” said Constable Haddock, for it was him. Most people called him Kipper or Kip, because with a name like Haddock the universe wasn’t going to let him get away without a nickname. It could have been a lot worse, though, and it helped that everybody liked Constable Haddock. In a city where every citizen dreaded a visit from the Watch (for after all, everybody was guilty of something), Haddock could making helping Watch inquiries almost pleasant. And he didn’t do it in the way of Captain Carrot, which left the inquire feel that they were being sent up the whole time. He did it in a way that said “I know you’re innocent, and you know you’re innocent, but why don’t we get this over with together?”

“Lance-Constable Hakim, isn’t it?” Haddock said. “Nice to meet you. It’ll be good to have an even six again. Corporal Flint should be here to show you the watch house, but he and Fittly are investigating a break-in. Dars, why don’t you show Hakim to the ladies’ locker room? She should get changed if we’re going to show her the ropes.”

Dars offered Haddock her seat with a sarcastic bow, which he received with an even lower and more sardonic bow. Then the dwarf grabbed Sweetpea’s sleeve and pulled her across the room. An unlabeled door led into a narrow hallway.

“Back here is the mess, where we have our breaks and write our reports,” said Dars, nodding to a door as they walked past it. “And down here are the locker rooms. They made the girls’ slightly smaller, since the watch is only 20% female anyway.”

“Is it?” said Sweetpea, surprised. “I thought it was even less.”

"That’ll be because of the dwarfs,” sighed Dars. “Everyone assumes we’re male. But we aren’t about to go wearing dresses on duty and shaving our beards,” she added fiercely. “We want to be female dwarfs on our own terms.”

“I like the sound of that,” said Sweetpea. “Female on your own terms. Yeah.”

Dars smiled at her. “Just you wait, lance-constable. It’s a whole new world for women of every species. Me and Lars Skulldrinker over at Dolly Sisters are working on a pamphlet together.”

She pushed open the door to the locker room. It was, indeed, tiny. There were four lockers set into the wall, and a tub in the corner. Clothes and armor were strewn everywhere. Dars coughed.

“I’m used to having the place to myself,” she said a touch defiantly. “And I didn’t have time to clean up when I heard you were coming.”

She halfheartedly kicked at a few shirts. Sweetpea dumped her stuff in an empty corner, as far away from Dars’ things as possible. She didn’t want to get in the dwarf’s way, no matter how much space she was using up.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Sweetpea. “We aren’t going to be here for very long anyway.”

Dars paused in the act of poking a malevolent pile of laundry with her axe handle.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m only on probation for six weeks or so,” Sweetpea began, “And there’s supposed to be a rotation of officers—“

Dars rolled her eyes. “Oh, that. Well, there’s _supposed_ to be $10 in the tea kitty at all times, but that’s been empty since Fittly got here. Our reports are _supposed_ to be turned into Corporal Flint, but everybody just gives them to Haddock to read. The rotation system’s more of a suggestion than anything. Corporal Flint likes Haddock and me, so he’s kept us on since Ick.” Dars shrugged. “No complaints from us. Now Fittly…Fittly hasn’t been here very long, and he probably won’t be here for much longer either. I haven’t had any trouble from him since the first day, but he never gets kept anywhere long.”

“Fittly. Right.” The more she heard about this constable, the less she wanted to meet him. “Should I get changed now? I haven’t got any armor yet.”

“We’ve got some mail and a couple of helmets lying around,” Dars said. Her voice was slightly muffled by the locker she had her whole body stuck in. “Just put on the uniform for now.”

Since it didn’t look like Dars was going to leave the room while she changed, Sweetpea turned her body towards the corner and began to undress. The Watch uniform consisted of knee-length breeches, sturdy sandals (with 1 pair boots for wintertime), a stiff leather belt, a short-sleeved tunic, and a long cloak. The cloak looked warmer than anything Sweetpea owned.

When she had gotten everything on, she turned to see Dars watching her.

“Uh…” said Sweetpea. Dars regarded her critically, ignoring her embarrassment.

"You’ve got the belt on wrong,” she said. “We wear it a little higher than that, and over the tunic.” She pulled up her chain mail to show Sweetpea. “Like mine, see?”

Sweetpea copied the style, and Dars nodded.

“You at least look the part. Got your truncheon? Now we see if you can walk the walk.”

After a brief tussle over who was going to take Sweetpea on her first patrol (Haddock won by pulling rank—he said he was “nearly lance corporal”), Sweetpea walked out onto Treacle Mine Road as Lance-Constable Hakim. Dars had found her a mail shirt that was too small and a helmet that was too big, but Sweetpea knew that she was getting some proper armor soon, armor made to fit her. It was a warm May day, and the streets were bustling like only Ankh-Morpork streets can.

“We’ll just mosey on down to Cable Street,” said Constable Haddock. He turned and waved to a figure outlined on the roof. “Pediment and Dars are keeping an eye on HQ, so all is well. Hopefully you’ll get to meet Pediment soon. He only comes inside about once a week, but there’s no one better for surveillance.”

“He’s a gargoyle?” Sweetpea asked, just to confirm. It didn’t pay to assume anything in Ankh-Morpork.

“Yep,” said Haddock. “Part of the reason we need a sixth person stationed here—he can’t go out on patrol.”

Sweetpea tried to fall in step with Haddock’s proceeding. It was a little easier to keep up with him than Corporal Shoe. Shoe shambled, but Haddock just swung his lanky legs. Sweetpea found that it all had to do with the turn of the foot. Once you had that down, everything else slotted into place.

“You’re doing it!” Haddock said in approval after a few minutes. “You’re a natural, lance-constable.”

“But being a copper isn’t just walking, is it?”

Walking and shouting “all’s well”—that’s what coppering had been when Sweetpea was a kid. Then all of a sudden, in the last five years or so, being a Watchman meant something. They made a difference.

“If being a copper was just walking, everyone would do it,” said Haddock wisely. “We do the things nobody else can do. You see over there?” The constable pointed across the street, where the buildings bent their heads conspiratorially and the alleys dissolved into shadow. “That’s the Shades, that is. But we patrol there.”

"Do we?” Sweetpea asked, her stomach lurching. The _Shades_ …

“Got to,” Haddock nodded. “We’re the Treacle Mine Road house. ‘S part of our jurisdiction. And d’you know? I haven’t ever been attacked there. Not once.”

“Really?” Sweetpea could hardly find this believable. Every kid in Ankh-Morpork knew that you didn't go into the Shades, unless you were with your whole gang. Sweetpea had never been in a gang, as her brother had told her in no uncertain terms that only “bad girls” were gang members. He had narrowly avoided being in one himself. After he steamed the gang leader in the face with the espresso machine, they pretty much left him alone.

“They wouldn’t dare attack a watchman in there, not with the fear of Sam Vimes in their hearts,” said Haddock. “He’d be on them like a bunch of rectangular building materials.”

Now that did make sense. If you weren’t afraid of Commander Vimes, you were either very unwise or just crazy. Sweetpea understood that, now that she had met the man. She’d gone to see him for a job interview and was scared—imagine if she’d seen him for an interrogation.

“Of course, it’s not just patrolling and breaking up post-football game riots,” continued Constable Haddock. “We get cases to solve every now and then. The big ones, the murders or armed robbery, those go up to the Yard. _We_ get the missing grannies and the late-night break-ins. And then, sometimes…” Haddock heaved a sigh. “Sometimes you’re on watch in the middle of the night, with the rain pouring down, and an armed drunk fighting you in the gutter. That’s when you find out if you’re a true copper or not.”

He fell into silence. Sweetpea didn’t want to break the silence by telling him that she would never be a true copper, not if she was going to be spending all of her time behind a desk. But if it took someone coming at you with a knife to be a “real” watchman, then a desk job didn’t sound so bad.

They had just gone past the Gleam Street junction when a stout man—Classic Tavern Owner #13, by the looks of it—came stomping out of a bar. He was dragging another man by the scruff of his neck. The tavern owner looked around for a moment, as if trying to find the best place to throw the other man. Then he saw Sweetpea and Haddock, and his face lit up.

“Ah, the Watch!” he said. “Perfect timing. You need to arrest this man immediately!”

“Watch and learn,” Haddock whispered to Sweetpea. He gripped his breastplate like lapels and strode over to the tavern owner.

“What has he done, sir?”

“Ain’t don’t nuffin’,” the other man muttered, swinging from the tavern owner’s fist. “Just ordered a drink. I even tried to pay for it. Should be grateful.”

“Oh, you tried to pay for it all right, Scuttie. With _counterfeit money_!”

The tavern owner swung Scuttie again, who just rolled his eyes.

“Can I see the money in question, sir?” Constable Haddock asked politely. “And please put down Scuttie here. We wouldn’t want him to get hurt.”

Scuttie was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Sweetpea watched him carefully. When it looked as though the tavern owner and Haddock were occupied, he began to slink away on his hands and knees. Sweetpea was ready for this.

“I think you’d better stick around, Scuttie,” she said, casually blocking his path. Scuttie sat down and folded his arms like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum.

“Fine,” he huffed.

The tavern owner, meanwhile, was rooting around in the pocket of an apron stained with years of other people’s drinks. Finally he pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Haddock. The constable held it theatrically up to the light.

“Yes,” he said carefully. “You were clever to not let this one get past you, Mr. Driver. What do you think, Lance-Constable?”

Haddock handed the fake bill to Sweetpea, and when she saw it she had to work very hard to contain her laughter. Scuttie’s try at making a counterfeit bill had been to cut out a piece of paper in the vague shape of a rectangle, color it in with green ink, and write “Oen doller” on both sides. She nodded solemnly and gave it back to Haddock.

“Good catch, Mr. Driver,” she said.

“I think we’d better take Scuttie back to the cells.” Haddock took the dangerous criminal by the arm and hauled him back to his feet. He nodded to Mr. Driver, who stuck his thumbs into his belt proudly. When they were out of his earshot, Sweetpea whispered to Haddock,

“Are we really putting Scuttie in the cells?”

“We’ll keep him for the night,” Haddock replied. “Our esteemed friend is a common patron of the Treacle Mine Road Motel.”

“Is that so?”

Sweetpea looked at Scuttie, who was muttering under his breath but leading the way back to the watch house without any prodding.

“Does that sort of thing happen a lot? Are there…regulars?”

Haddock tilted his helmet back and looked thoughtfully at the sky. “Let’s see…in this area, we always get in some of the rowdier seamstresses. Mr. Ivanson is in and out about once a week—he tries to cut off people’s knees when he gets drunk, but luckily he hasn’t had a real axe for years. And then there’s always Done-It Duncan…but I heard he’s staying up around the Long Wall station.” He winked at her. “So, yes, you might say we’ve got a regular crew. What would you suggest we do with them?”

“Take down their name and address, if they’ve got it, and let them stay a night in the cells,” said Sweetpea slowly. “And…give them some tea?”

“That’s about it,” said Haddock. “You’re catching on mightily quick.”

“Wish I’d caught on as quick to clerking,” Sweetpea muttered.

“That’s right, you went through the Clerk’s Guild, didn’t you? Sergeant Angua said something about that.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Sweetpea implored. She was already going to be a copper that did mostly writing, and being guild-trained seemed to make that worse.  Constable Fittly, she was sure, was going to have lots of fuel.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” said Haddock, a little confused. “But I say good for you for getting a good education.”

“I suppose,” said Sweetpea miserably.

The watch house was in sight. Scuttie pushed the door open, and was greeted with Constable Ironcrust sighing,

“Oh, Scuttie, what’ve you done this time?”

Haddock and Sweetpea joined the perennial criminal inside. Scuttie was leaning on the front desk with an air of familiarity. Haddock carefully set the fake dollar on the wood in front of him.

“In for counterfeiting this time, Dars,” he said. The dwarf raised an eyebrow at Scuttie.

“That’s a step up for you, Scuttie,” she said. “Counterfeiting is a serious offense. Good thing we got to you before anyone else, eh?”

“It’s not my fault,” Scuttie whined. “They’re so much easier to forge than a coin.”

“That’s…true,” said Sweetpea slowly. Dars and Haddock looked at her. She was staring at the fake dollar bill on the desk.

“Something wrong, Hakim?” Dars asked.

“Not exactly,” she said, the gears in her head churning. “I’ll take the report on this one, though.”

“Volunteering for writing a report? You must really want a favor,” came a voice from behind the desk. Dars and Haddock rolled their eyes in unison, and turned to reveal a young man, a bit older than Sweetpea, sitting at a desk. He had a piece of paper in front of him, but clearly hadn’t gotten very far with writing his own report. He smiled in a smarmy sort of way at Sweetpea.

“Lance-Constable Sweetheart, isn’t it?”

“Actually, it’s Sweetpea,” said Sweetpea coolly. “And I believe it’s common Watch practice to refer to fellow officers by their last names.”

Dars had to hide a chuckle, and Haddock smiled.

“She’s got you there, Fittly. Why don’t you leave the new kid alone?”

Fittly looked hurt. “I haven’t done anything, Kipper, have I? I only asked her name.”

“It’s fine,” said Sweetpea. The last thing she needed were other people standing up for her. That had gone disastrously every time Chelsea heard her being insulted—she would often threaten to beat people up. She took the dollar and went to sit at an empty desk. There were some interesting words carved into the wood.

“Well, salaam, anyway,” Fittly said as he bent over his report.

“What?”

“Isn’t that how they say hello in Klatch?”

Sweetpea glared at the back of the constable’s head.

“I was born in Ankh-Morpork,” she said as civilly as she could.

“Oh. Right.”

Sweetpea shook her head and began to look around for writing materials. After opening a few drawers, she found a stack of paper, a bottle of ink, and a quill. She was going to have to get a notebook—all good coppers carried notebooks, especially if their job was to pass on information. Let’s see…

Ever since the paper money had been introduced by Mr. Lipwig last year, you heard complaints about counterfeit bills. They weren’t as easy to forge as stamps, being bigger, but that didn’t stop people from trying. It certainly hadn’t helped when the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ had printed out a full-color picture of the one-dollar bill, back and front. Glued-together bills had circulated small businesses for weeks.

After writing a few sentences, Sweetpea set her quill down. She was going to have to get more information before she made a full report.

“Constable Ironcrust?” she asked. “Do we have a clacks tower on the roof?”

“Up that way.” Dars waved vaguely at the stairs. “You might look in on the corporal on your way up. He hasn’t met you yet.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sweetpea couldn’t see the point of Corporal Flint having his own office, if Haddock did all the paperwork for him, but anyone you had to go up a flight of stairs to see had to be important. The door was cracked open, and she knocked hesitantly.

“Hello? Corporal?”

“Is dat der new lance-constable? Come in.”

Sweetpea pushed the door open and entered the corporal’s small office. Most of the room was taken up by Corporal Flint—he was an average size, as trolls go, with a shiny black sheen on his skin. (Or whatever it was that trolls had.) He waved a file at her.

“Just been lookin’ at you file. Nothin’ in it so far.”

“Uh…”

“Dat’s a good fing.”

She smiled nervously. “Oh? Good.”

He put the file down and folded his craggy hands together.

“You may have heard dat I can’t write. Dat doesn’t mean I can’t read, or know everyfing dat’s goin’ on in my station. Since you on probation, another officer needs to be wid you at all times. You’ll be on der schedule by tomorrow—better get used to lots o’ night shifts.”

“That’s fine,” she said quickly. Flint was…Well, what had she expected? He was a corporal, after all. As Angua had said—they wouldn’t have put him in charge if he couldn’t do it. One of her teachers at school, a rather unpleasant man named Professor Treble, was fond of saying that “No matter how smart you are, there’s always going to be somebody smarter. And they might not even be literate.”

Corporal Flint jerked his stony chin towards the door. “Dars likes you already. Dat’s good. She a good judge of character. Haddock likes you, I fink, but Haddock likes everyone. Fittly may be annoyin’, but he ain’t a bad copper. You’ll go on patrol wid everyone, even me. Understood?”

“Yes, corporal,” said Sweetpea. Oh, boy. Patrol with Fittly.

“Since you ain’t been through trainin’, it’ll be up to us to train you in der ways of basic copperin’.” Corporal Flint leaned forward, and his desk creaked dangerously. “Here dey are: nobody above der law, not even you. No takin’ bribes. Donuts is okay. Police brutality surest way to get you fired. Always assume people lyin’. You answer to me an’ my superiors, not just anybody wid money who shouts.”

Corporal Flint paused and looked down at his fingers. He appeared to be counting something. Then he nodded.

“Dat’s about it. Der rest you’ll learn on der job. You can go.”

Sweetpea left the office feeling oddly pleased. Dars and Haddock liked her, and she liked them. The corporal seemed okay, and Fittly she could deal with. A bully that nobody likes is hardly any trouble. At school, she’d had more trouble telling who _wasn’t_ a bully. Not that everybody hated her, but combine a boy-girl ratio of 4:1, add a bit of casual racism, and stir in her relationship with Chelsea…and you got the recipe for an interesting five years.

Now the only member of the Treacle Mine Road squad she hadn’t met was Constable Pediment. She was having all kinds of firsts today: first time meeting a duke, first time talking to a zombie, and now her first time talking to a gargoyle.

At the end of the second floor hallway was a ladder that went up through a hole in the ceiling. Daylight, filtered through the clouds and various other gases in the air, shone weakly through. Sweetpea climbed up it and poked her head out on the roof.

“’Eo,” said a voice behind her. She sat on the edge of the hole and turned to see a lichen-encrusted gargoyle watching her.

“Constable Pediment?” she guessed.

“’ats ‘e,” he said. “’a-eem?”

Sweetpea did a quick mental translation and said, “Lance-Constable Hakim, yes.”

The view wasn’t bad from up here. Two stories up wasn’t high enough to get out of the smog, which was thick and yellow even in the summer. Even so, you could see the pedestrians going by in the street below. On the other side of the station was the back of a brewery, and its enormous water tank.

“I can see why you like it up here,” Sweetpea said to Constable Pediment. He shrugged, to indicate that he didn’t have much of a choice. Behind him on the roof, Sweetpea saw a miniature clacks tower. She pulled herself fully onto the roof and went to check it out. Clacksing basics had been covered in one of her communications classes. She knew the code, and could even do rudimentary encryptions. The actual mechanics hadn’t been taught.

“Hey, Pediment?” she said. “If I read out a message, can you send it to Pseudopolis yard for me?”

“’ure.”

The gargoyle joined her at the clacks in a series of jerky movements, with little pauses in between. If you blinked rapidly, it would look like he was moving normally. Sweetpea wondered how fast he could move. Well, they did say that Pediment didn’t go on patrol, but could he chase down criminals? A gargoyle coming towards you would be incentive for any would-be thief to just give up.

Pediment grasped the handles of the clacks machine and looked at her expectantly. She superfluously looked up at the shutters to make sure the lamp was lit, then pulled out her report.

“Right. Okay. This is for Corporal Pessimal. Statistics…needed…for…money… counterfeiting…in…last…year.”

She waited while Pediment pulled the levers and caught up with her. This clacks tower had to be fairly new, but it looked like a strong wind could take it down. The light behind the shutters winked in time to the levers, and Sweetpea could practically see the information pass through the air to the tower several blocks over.

“’at’s it?” Pediment asked.

“No. One more—this one’s to Sergeant Angua. Ready? Permission…to…write… investigation…on…money…forging. There.”

Pediment let go of the levers and moved, faster than Sweetpea would have thought possible, back to the comfort of his ledge. Sweetpea went to sit next to him, and dangled her legs over the edge of the roof.

“Now we just wait?”

Pediment nodded, his mouth gaping over the street.

“Might take a while. I know both of those officers are probably busy.”

They sat there in companionable silence for a few moments. All sorts of interesting people were going by on the streets below. Trolls and dwarfs walked past each other very carefully, on opposite sides of the street. A woman leaned against a wall on the edge of the Shades, looking bored. If she was a seamstress, she was a long ways from home.

“I bet you see a lot of crimes being committed from up here,” Sweetpea said. Pediment nodded. “How do you tell the rest of the squad what’s—“

Pediment reached out a claw and pointed to a string on a hook right next to him. Sweetpea reached out to touch it, but Pediment gently stopped her. He ran his claw down the string, then pointed to the roof and said,

“’ing ‘ing. ‘ow ‘ere.”

“What?”

“’ing ‘ing! ‘Ell!”

“Oh, a bell! It connects to a bell?”

Pediment nodded, clearly pleased, and pointed to himself.

“Your idea?” Sweetpea asked. “Well, it was a good one.”

There was a rattling sound from behind them, and Pediment jerked back over to the clacks. Sweetpea jumped up and read the message coming in. You could just barely see the lights winking at the other tower.

“S T A T S…stats…F O R…for…F O R G E…forge,” she muttered. “4 6…46…C A S E S…cases…”

Pediment tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a piece of paper. Somehow, he had already decoded the message and written it out for her. How had he done that? The whole message hadn’t even come in yet!

“Oh, thanks,” she said, and read:

_Stats for forge: 46 cases since money introduced. Minor cases not counted. Srg A says more info coming when other cases closed. Report OK to send to Times. Corp A.E.P._

“Just what I needed,” she said to herself, and then patted Constable Pediment gently on the back, as to not hurt herself.

“Thanks for the help, constable. I’ll see you later.”

She stuck the clacks paper into her belt and headed back downstairs.

\---------------

“Hakim, you’ve been here for eight hours,” Constable Ironcrust said.

Sweetpea looked up from her desk, which was covered in ink and discarded pieces of paper.

“Um. Yes?”

In between working on her report, Sweetpea had gone out on another patrol, this time with Corporal Flint. They had rescued a cat from a tree and were given free sandwiches from a grateful Mr. Driver. Since Corporal Flint couldn’t eat them, Sweetpea brought one back each for Haddock and Fittly. She had decided she was going to pretend that Fittly was just an ordinary copper (which he was, really) and maybe he would act like one.

“Your shift is over,” Dars explained patiently. “Probationary officers can’t be here more than eight hours, or the commander gets shirty when it’s time to sign off the wage chitties.”

“Eight hours? Really? But you’ve been here much longer than that.”

Dars grinned evilly. She hadn’t been off-duty all day, except when she’d ducked out for five minutes to grab a rat and chips.

“Yeah, but lance-constables don’t qualify for over-time, do they? See you tomorrow.”

Sweetpea stared down at her report. It was still only about a page and a half, but that was probably as good as it was going to get. After five years’ training, she couldn’t _not_ edit something within an inch of its life.

“I won’t be off-duty quite yet,” she said. “There’s something I’ve got to do first.”

\---------------

Gleam Street was only a few blocks away from the watch house. Sweetpea wondered if Sergeant Angua had done that on purpose, and then remembered that there had been a position open at Treacle Mine Road anyway. Perhaps it was just luck. The Gods did get involved, sometimes.

You couldn’t miss the _Times_ office—the outside of the building had a large sign, but the real indicator were all the people. Distributors with pushcarts shoved past each other shouting at dwarfs, trolls shouted to other trolls, and ordinary citizens who had “tips” for the paper were shouting at anybody who would listen. With her uniform on, Sweetpea found that if people didn’t give her a wide berth, they at least didn’t shove. She moved through the crowd like a minor prophet and reached the main doors. In front of them stood a short troll squeezed into a suit.

“They might be expecting me,” she said hopefully, and flashed her badge for good measure. “I’m the new Press Liaison for the Watch?”

“Dat a question?” the troll asked shrewdly. Sweetpea was used to this from her teachers.

“I am the new Press Liaison,” she corrected. “I have a report for the editors.”

There was a pause as the troll thought.

“As it happens, dey is expecting you,” he said, as if loath to reveal this information. “Go on inside.”

He sidled away from the door, and Sweetpea gave him a half-salute before pushing the door open.

She hadn’t even noticed the thumping before, which was amazing considering the noise of it in here. The behemoth press hulked before her like some monster from the dawn of time, except one made out of metal and copper and strange gyrating gears. With every thump it sent a paper sailing onto a neat stack.

“Can I help you?” somebody asked loudly. She looked over, and then down, at a dwarf. He (possibly he) looked even grumpier than Dars. He wore an apron, and held a spanner in his folded arms. Sweetpea suddenly felt as though she wasn’t allowed to be in here, even though she had a very legitimate reason.

Wait, she was a copper. She could go _anywhere_.

She pulled the report out of her belt and showed it to the dwarf.

“I’m Lance-Constable Hakim. Can I see the editorial staff, please?”

The dwarf squinted at the report, and then up at her. “I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “Follow me.”

He led Sweetpea around the frame of the press to the offices beyond. The factory floor was divided up into cubicles by wood partitions. The dwarf wove his way through these and to the back wall, which was lined by a row of glass doors. As they reached one of the doors, it was thrown open by a blonde young man. He wore green tweed, and Sweetpea was sorry for him because the tweed had gotten to him so early in life.

“Sacharissa!” the man yelled, and then noticed them standing there.

“Oh, hello, Boddony. And—“ he sighed when he saw Sweetpea. “What does the Watch want now?”

“To give you a report on counterfeiting, _sir_ ,” said Sweetpea. She handed him the paper. “Those aren’t the definitive numbers, but they’re the best ones we’ve got at the moment. Lance-Constable Sweetpea Hakim. I’m told you were expecting me, Mr. de Worde?”

The man looked up from hastily scanning her report. “How did you know I was the editor?”

_The tweed_ , Sweetpea thought, but said, “You looked in charge.”

“Oh,” said de Worde, looking embarrassed. “Is it because I shouted? I try not to shout too much—we’ve been trying to get this story on Borogravia done for days.” He flapped the page Sweetpea had handed him. “This looks good. I’m not sure how I feel about Vimes assigning somebody just to deal with us, though. It’s better to be able to ask him. We can write our own reports, you know.”

“Look,” said Sweetpea. “This is only my first day, so maybe I haven’t found out enough about either side yet. But it seems to me that the commander is busy enough without you always bothering him. The Watch is working on some confidential cases that the public doesn’t need to know everything about. Now, if there’s anything you need to know, you can come to me.”

“The Watch shouldn’t have secrets—“

“Oh? Would you like to report the names of every victim of crimes that haven’t been solved yet?” Sweetpea challenged. “Want to report the signature move of a serial killer so other people can copy them?”

Boddony sniggered, and de Worde glared at him.

“Haven’t you got things to do, Boddony?” he asked.

The dwarf waved a hand dismissively, as if to show that he was already about to leave. De Worde watched him go and turned back to Sweetpea.

“I’m sorry,” Sweetpea said instantly. “I want us to have a good working relationship. Look, Commander Vimes wouldn’t assign somebody whose sole job it was to talk to you if he didn’t want you to know things. He may not like you, but I think he trusts you.”

“All right,” said de Worde reluctantly. “It just feels like he thinks we need a babysitter. He’s been that way ever since we first got started.”

“I’m not going to be babysitting _anyone_ ,” Sweetpea said firmly. “But we can do good work together—instead of working against each other. I’ve read some of your investigations. Like the meat-packing scandal. You practically did the Watch’s work for them.”

 De Worde swelled with pride. “It’s true that people will say things to a reporter they won’t tell a Watchman,” he conceded. “And there aren’t any laws against reporters going undercover.”

_Not yet_ , Sweetpea thought, filing this away under “future things to discuss with Sergeant Angua”.

“Anyway, I’m over at Treacle Mine Road for the next few weeks,” she said. “I can be reached by c-mail, and I’ll let you know once I’ve got a permanent spot at Pseudopolis Yard. I don’t think anyone’s quite sure of what my position is going to entail yet, since I’m the first person ever to hold it.”

“So…we can really ask you for information about anything the Watch was involved in?” de Worde asked. He seemed to be warming up to the concept.

“Yes, within reason,” Sweetpea encouraged. “Instead of risking getting shouted at by Commander Vimes, I’ll send you anything you ask for. Provided it’s cleared by one of the officers, of course.”

De Worde stuck out his hand. “This could be the beginning of a…well, a quite _beneficial_ partnership.”

Sweetpea shook his hand. It was even more inkstained than hers.

“I’d better go, I’m on overtime as it is,” she said. Unpaid overtime. “And you’d better get that report about Borogravia finished.”

“Ah, thank you for reminding me!” de Worde said. He hurried over to the office next-door and rapped urgently at the door. “Sacharissa! Have you got that fact-checking on the war story done yet?”

Sweetpea saw herself out. She was quite ready to be off-duty. Being a copper all the time and upholding the Watch’s honor could be exhausting.

\---------------

It was nearly 7:30 by the time Sweetpea got home. Hasan wasn’t there—it looked like he hadn’t been able to foist the late shift off on his only employee Fatiha. There was a note from him on the table. Sweetpea grabbed it and fell onto the low couch to read it.

_Sweetpea—_

_I’m working late tonight. I’m assuming that because you’re not at home, you got the job? Congrats! I got the mail—looks like your test results are in. Also, you got a letter from a boy. I want to hear everything when I get home._

_Hasan_

Her test results already? That was unexpectedly fast. She’d expected to have at least a few days to agonize over what she’d put down for #17 on the codebreaking multiple-choice. She was so sure it’d been a pidgin cypher, but then again there was the slight chance that it might have been a Tacticarian…

She scrabbled for the small pile of envelopes on the table until she found the official-looking, cream-colored one. The seal was a dark brown, which she broke open with shaking fingers.

_Filing – Pass_

_Codebreaking – Pass_

_Notetaking – Exemplary_

_Accountancy – Pass_

_Organization – Exemplary_

_Congratulations, you are now a fully-fledged member of the Clerk’s Guild_.

Also enclosed was a very fancy-looking certificate. It was covered in looping writing and several signatures, but what it all added up to was something Sweetpea had been telling people for days: she was a real clerk.

“Two exemplaries,” she said to herself. “Ha! I knew Migrosoft wasn’t going to fail me.”

Buoyed by giddiness, she opened the other letter. It had no stamp, and the envelope simply bore her name. This meant that it had to have been hand-delivered. Sweetpea suddenly felt a dread at the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t from Chelsea, was it?

_Dear Sweetpea,_

_You’re out at the moment, but I hope you’ll get this before late tonight. I got my test scores back today—four exemplaries! A few of us are having a celebratory dinner at the Genuan place on Attic Bee Street at 7 pm. It’d be wonderful if you could join us._

_John_

Sweetpea lay back on the couch. On one hand, she was tired from a long day. On the other hand, she did like John, and going out with him would be fun. On another hand, “a few of us” might mean that Chelsea was there. On yet another hand, John knew her history with Chelsea. He wouldn’t invite her if she was going to be there. How many hands was that now?

Sweetpea groaned and swung herself off the couch. She’d better get changed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this has been a slower burn than I meant it to be. I promise the main plot is going to start to creep in.

It looked like the celebrations were still going by the time Sweetpea got to The Gumbo House. The rowdiest thing a gang of clerks could manage was open several bottles of champagne and get slightly tipsy. So as it was, the guild school alumni table wasn’t even the loudest table in the house. Sweetpea, dressed in her blue abaya again, waved to John. He’d spotted her as soon as she walked in.

“Sweetpea, glad you could make it!” he exclaimed. “I saved you a seat just in case.” He patted the empty chair next to him. “We got a huge pot of gumbo to share.”

“Do you want some, Hakim?” asked Ash Parker, holding up the ladle. “I think it’s got beef in it, although it’s hard to tell. Can you have that?”

“Yes, thank you, Parker. Offlians are forbidden from eating broccoli, and in any case I’m not practicing,” said Sweetpea. _I’m not annoyed_ , she told herself. _Look at me smiling. I’m not annoyed_.

“Okay,” said Parker, and filled a bowl to the brim. “Pass this down to Hakim, will you?”

The bowl made its precarious way down the line of clerks to Sweetpea, who took it without spilling more than a few drops. It smelled amazing and tasted even better. She hoped this wasn’t going to cost too much—nobody had told her when she was going to get her first paycheck.

“So, were you working at the stand today, Sweetpea?” John asked her.

“No, I was actually working somewhere else,” Sweetpea said carefully. She wasn’t sure how John was going to react. He wasn’t from the upper-class and didn’t hold their prejudices against the Watch, but he was probably going to have some opinions about her choice.

She looked up from her bowl of gumbo and realized that the rest of the table was watching her. They all knew her. They had all been to the Hakim Klatchian Coffee Stand at one point or another. Damn. This wasn’t how she wanted to tell John at all.

“I, uh, got a job with the Watch. I’m going to be their new Press Liaison.”

“The Watch?” scoffed Aksel, which was just typical.

“Isn’t that kind of, um…” John paused, trying to navigate through a minefield of a conversation, “A step down? For you?”

“I don’t think so,” Sweetpea retorted. “And I’m enjoying it so far.”

Don’t get angry, she thought. They already think you’re too opinionated. Don’t be “sensitive”. Be civil, and hopefully they will be too.

“Once I’m off my probation I’ll get my own office,” she said. She forced herself to spoon a few bites into her mouth. All around the table, glances were being exchanged. “It’s the first time anyone’s ever held this position. They sort of invented it for me.”

Well, that wasn’t quite true, but around this crowd it didn’t hurt to brag a little.

“They’ve already got A.E. Pessimal,” said Parker from the end of the table, “But if having more clerks makes the Watch smarter, then I say we should all join.”

There were a few laughs, and Sweetpea relaxed somewhat. She couldn’t convince them all of the Watch’s competence, and she’d already defended her new job today. That was entirely enough workplace loyalty for an employee’s first day, thank you very much.

Sweetpea was just about to turn to John and ask him about his job offers when a familiar voice made her stop dead.

“I see you lot started without me. Bad form.”

Sweetpea turned slightly in her chair to see Chelsea stomping over to the table to join them. In her usual deference to traditional clerking clothes, she was wearing a flannel.

“Hello, Marjoram.” The chorus came from the people around the table who liked Chelsea, or at least pretended to. Chelsea dragged a chair over and crammed herself into the empty space right next to Sweetpea. Sweetpea turned frantically to John.

“I didn’t know she was invited!” she whispered.

John shrugged helplessly. “Somebody else must have told her,” he said.

“Hello, Sweetpea,” said Chelsea, feigning an air of casualness. “Hey, pass down a bowl of that gumbo, will you?”

That was Chelsea. Whether people liked her or not, she shaped the world by her force of personality until they respected her. Sweetpea had never been able to master that. Whenever she got mad, people just tuned her out. When Chelsea got mad, they really _listened_. She made them listen. In some ways, it had been better when they were together. People hadn’t bothered her as much back then, and when they did, Chelsea would threaten to “take care of them”. Sweetpea didn’t like all the fuss being made about her, but it was at least nice to feel protected. That was partly why it had been so hard to leave.

“So, Sweetpea,” said Chelsea while she tore into her gumbo. “I didn’t get the chance to ask you yesterday. What’s this new job of yours?”

“She’s working for the Watch!” piped up Aksel. Sweetpea sighed, but not too loudly.

Can I arrest Aksel? She wondered. What could I get her for? Behavior likely to cause a breach of the peace? There’s about to be a breath of the peace in a minute, because I’m going to finally haul off and punch her one.

Chelsea sniggered. She actually _sniggered_. “The Watch? Five years of guild training and you become a copper on the first day out of school? Come on, Sweetie, you can do better.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sweetpea said quietly.

“It’s only a nickname,” said Chelsea. “I wouldn’t dare call you a pet name anymore, because you’d complain. You’re so eager to act like we’ve never been more than friends.”

The table had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Sweetpea would be embarrassed if she wasn’t so angry.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” she said. She was proud of how little her voice shook. “Not in front of all these people.”

“And that’s another thing!” said Chelsea, letting her spoon fall into her bowl with a clatter. “You always care what other people think about you! It’s not like these lot are strangers, we’ve known all of them for years—“

She swept her arm wide, to indicate the table of now thoroughly embarrassed clerks, and the back of her hand caught Sweetpea right in the face.

“Ow! Offler’s teeth!” Sweetpea swore, holding a hand to her eye. Chelsea always did have a mean right hook on her, even if it was unintentional. And it _was_ unintentional—she immediately jumped up.

“Oh my gods! Sweetpea—I’m so sorry—it was an accident—“

She tried to reach out, to console Sweetpea, but Sweetpea got up so fast her chair fell over.

“I don’t care if it was an accident,” Sweetpea hissed. “I don’t ever want to see you again. Stay away from me.”

She spun around on her heel and stormed out. It was a good storm, too, but she couldn’t appreciate it because of the pain in her eye. That wasn’t going to look good in the morning. Chelsea had never hit her before, intentional or otherwise. It still wasn’t the worst Chelsea had hurt her. All the things that Chelsea had said when Sweetpea told her she wanted to leave—that had been the hardest to bear.

Sweetpea couldn’t tell whether her face was hot because it hurt, or because she was so upset. Either way, the cool night air felt good on her face. She stood outside the restaurant for a little bit, indecisive about where to go. If she went immediately home, Hasan would surely want to know what had happened to her face. And if she said it was Chelsea, well… Hasan never approved of Chelsea, but Sweetpea didn’t give him much credit for his judge of character. It had mostly been because she was a girl.

“Hey!” The door to the restaurant opened again, and there was John. “Are you okay?”

Sweetpea took her hand off her eye and tried to smile, but pain went shooting up the side of her face.

“Ooh,” John winced. “Your eye is all red.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Sweetpea sighed. “I’m sure it’ll be bruised in a few hours.”

“Come on,” said John, offering his arm. “I’ll walk you back home.”

Sweetpea gratefully took the arm and leaned into him. Right now, she needed somebody to comfort her. Suffering in silence was all very well, and good for building up the internal supply of spite, but Sweetpea found that a friendly shoulder was better.

“Everyone got really mad at Chelsea after you left,” he said as they started down the road. “A lot of them already don’t like the way she treats you, but they were too polite to bring it up.”

“I think the word you’re looking for there is ‘cowardly’ instead of polite,” said Sweetpea. “There’s a big difference.”

John opened his mouth and shut it again. Sweetpea squeezed his arm.

“I don’t mean you, John. You being there for me after we broke it off was part of the reason I was able to leave her. That was a big help.”

“I’m glad,” said John hesitantly. Sweetpea looked at him hard.

“There’s a ‘but’ on the tip of your tongue, isn’t there?”

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Sweetpea,” said John. They passed a seamstress, who looked disappointed when she saw that John had a lady on his arm. “I was glad to be a friend for you while you were going through a rough patch. Breaking up with Chelsea hit you hard, and I know I was one of the few people there for you at the time. But that doesn’t mean you should…well…”

“What are you getting at, John?” snapped Sweetpea. She already didn’t like the tone he was striking.

“What I’m getting at,” he said wretchedly, “Is that I’m not into you, Sweetpea.”

“Great Offler,” Sweetpea exclaimed. “I’m _not_. Did you think I was?”

Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. She had been trying to work out her feelings for John for a while now. She didn’t like him for being some type of white knight that swooped in and saved her from Chelsea. That had been almost all her, anyway. John had only helped afterwards, while she was recovering.

“Well, it sort of seemed like—“ John said, digging himself deeper.

“What, did you think I was so grateful for someone to get me out of my awful relationship with a woman that I’d run right into the arms of the guy who helped me?” Sweetpea demanded. “Because I’m not into guys, John.”

Was that strictly true? She didn’t know.

“I am,” John blurted out.

Sweetpea stopped dead. Because she was still holding onto John’s arm, he had to stop too. He looked at her with something approaching panic in his eyes.

“Sweetpea?”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, shaking her head. “I should have known.” She started walking again, pulling John along, a sudden spring in her step. “And don’t worry! How on the Disc could I be mad? There are so few of us as it is.”

John looked as though he was going to melt with relief. “You’re the first person I’ve told,” he said. “I’ve known for months. I figured you would be happy for me, but it was so hard to tell you anyway.”

“I know how that is,” said Sweetpea. “I never got around to telling either of my parents.”

They were nearing a poorer neighborhood; close to Sweetpea’s building. She pulled John to face her.

“I can get home from here,” she said. “Thanks for walking me this far. And thanks for telling me that you’re—you know.”

She kissed him on the cheek. He smiled and then pointed to her eye.

“You should got something cold on that,” he said.

“I know,” she sighed.

\---------------

Sweetpea steeled herself for the explanations when she got to the Watch house the next day. Sure enough, Haddock gasped as soon as he saw her from the front desk.

“Hakim, you didn’t get into a fight, did you?”

Dars and Fittly, sitting at desks conveniently close by, immediately jumped up to see. Damn coppers and their natural inquisitiveness. She had to admit that her bruise looked awful—it had developed into a proper black eye overnight. The ice that Hasan had gotten from the stand for her hadn’t helped. What was worse was the fact that he didn’t give her a lecture on Chelsea—Offler knew he’d given enough of those—he just looked sad.

“If it was a fight, it was a bit one-sided,” Fittly remarked. “Or should we see the other guy?”

“Shut up, _Brian_ ,” said Dars. “Who did this to you, lance-onstable?”

“Just an ex,” Sweetpea mumbled. It wouldn’t do to lie—she just had to get it over with.

“An ex did that to you?” said Haddock, looking horrified.

“We should all go ‘round while we’re off-duty and beat him up,” said Dars, smashing one meaty fist into her palm.

“ _Or_ , Dars,” corrected Haddock, glaring at her, “We could get him for assaulting a Watch officer. That’s a few years in the Tanty.”

“Ooh, even better,” said Dars, her eyes gleaming.

“Really, it’s fine,” said Sweetpea. She tried to surreptitiously make her way to the locker room, but Fittly and Dars were blocking her way. “It was an accident. She didn’t mean to do it.”

The room froze, and that was when Sweetpea realized what she’d just said. The universe had lulled her into a false sense of security after her conversation with John last night. The Watch was famous for being accepting, weren’t they?

Well, most of the Watch.

Fittly unfroze first.

“’She’?” he repeated, with an uncertain smile. “Does that mean that you’re qu—“

“Fittly!” Corporal Flint bellowed from upstairs. Either Sweetpea was really lucky, or trolls had very good hearing. Although—Flint’s door had been open yesterday, hadn’t it?

Fittly groaned, and dragged himself across the floor towards the stairs. On his way past, Sweetpea heard him mutter,

“If I have to go through sensitivity training again—”

Haddock continued as if nothing had happened.  “Accident or not, we can bring her in if you want to press charges.

“I don’t,” said Sweetpea quickly. “I want her out of my life.”

“Is beating up totally out of the question?” asked Dars hopefully. “I don’t have a problem hitting girls, especially if they beat up other girls.”

“She didn’t beat me up, Constable Ironcrust,” said Sweetpea. She finally managed to sidle between Dars and the desk. “It really was just an accident.”

“You know you can’t punch everything, Dars,” Constable Haddock said from behind her.

“I can on my days off,” Dars replied stubbornly. “Oh, and Hakim, be careful in the locker room. I saw Fittly ducking out of there earlier this morning. He was probably putting his customary ‘Welcome to the Watch’ gift in your locker.”

“Great,” said Sweetpea, and viciously opened the door to the back hallway.

A few minutes later, she re-entered the station proper, wearing her full uniform and smiling oddly.

“Something wrong?” Haddock asked her.

“Not at all,” said Sweetpea, and then she laughed. “Just the opposite, in fact.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small packet. Dars and Haddock leaned in to read it.

“Akmed’s Genuine Messyman Curry Powder,” Haddock said aloud. “Er, yes?” He looked up at Sweetpea nervously. She was grinning. This was not the usual reaction to one of Fittly’s pranks.

“It’s _actual_ curry powder,” Sweetpea said. “Not whatever crap Morporkians flavor their swede with. He must have just gone into a Klatchian grocery and bought the first packet of curry he saw. The joke’s on him, because this is the good stuff. Dars, didn’t you say we have a mess?”

“We do,” said Dars slowly. She and Haddock exchanged a confused look.

“Well, it’s going to get some use on my lunch break,” said Sweetpea happily. “When do I go on patrol?”

“Actually, it’s your turn for desk duty,” said Haddock, consulting a list. “You’ll get the hang of it pretty quick. Sign out anybody who’s going on patrol, and then sign them back in when they return. If anybody comes in, address their problem and send them back to one of us. I’m going on patrol with Fittly, but Dars will be here if you have any questions.”

Fittly came clomping down the stairs right on cue. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, heaved a sigh, and turned to Sweetpea.

“I’m sorry for pranking your locker, Lance-Constable Hakim,” he said mechanically. “And for making any insinuating comments against your person. Can we go now, Haddock?”

“Just waiting for you, Fittly,” said Haddock innocently. Fittly yanked open the door and stomped out. Haddock followed, but paused to wink at Sweetpea before closing the door behind him.

“That was exciting,” said Dars. Sweetpea turned her chair around to look at the dwarf constable. She was very pointedly not doing her report, and instead had her feet propped up on her desk. “So, you’re queer, then?”

“Uh—“

“Oh, it’s okay. I can say it ‘cause I am too.”

“I didn’t know that was how it worked,” said Sweetpea weakly.

“Oh, yeah. Believe me, it’s one of the least offensive words I could use.”

“I know,” said Sweetpea. Oh, she knew. It was amazing the number of synonyms for “a woman that likes a woman” she’d heard over the past few years. “Is it—is it easier, being a dwarf?” she asked hesitantly. “Two people with beards go around, nobody questions them.”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been anything other than a dwarf,” said Dars frankly. “I can see what you’re getting at, though. Surprisingly enough, most dwarfs don’t seem to mind.”

“Don’t they?” That _was_ surprising. There had been enough of a hubbub when female dwarfs had started to “come out”.

“No. Most dwarfs start courting before they know each other’s sex anyway. There have been plenty of same-sex dwarf couples in the past, not just ones that _say_ they’re both male. It’s okay, though, because they can always adopt. Don’t get me wrong, there are still complaints. But do you know what I say to those?”

“What?” asked Sweetpea. She could guess.

Dars grinned.

“Bugger ‘em.”

\---------------

Fittly and Haddock returned from their patrol late, looking exhausted and dragging along two boys that couldn’t have been older than ten. Both boys were griping loudly, and Haddock had to raise his voice to be heard over them.

“Saw these two throwing stones at windows. Took us quite a while to chase them down.”

“When you find out where they live, I’ll send Hakim over to get their parents,” Dars said.

Haddock looked around. “Where is she?”

“On her lunch break. She’s in the mess.”

Fittly sniffed the air. “Is she…cooking something?”

“I think so,” said Dars blithely.

“Yah, copper!” shouted one of the boys, and kicked Fittly in the shin. Fittly hopped away, clutching his leg and yelping. Haddock took the little boy by the shoulder and crouched down to his level.

“That’s assaulting a Watch officer, my lad,” he said. “Try it again and you’ll have more to worry about than your parents being angry.”

The boy stuck out his tongue.

“Understood?” Haddock said.

The boy withdrew his tongue and nodded. Haddock got back to his feet and grabbed the other boy’s shoulder. Fittly was leaning against a desk, theatrically nursing his shin.

“Help me take these two hooligans down to the cells, just for the sake of our own sanity,” Haddock said

The two boys were taken away, protesting loudly. Only moments after they’d gone, Sweetpea entered the main room, carrying a huge pot of something steaming. Her braid was coiled up into a bun, and her face was red from the heat of the kitchen.

“I thought I heard the boys come back,” she said. “I’ve made Messyman curry with chickpeas.” Dars pulled a bowl out from gods-knew-where and eagerly joined Sweetpea at the pot. “We had some rice, too, so I thought I’d mix it in.”

Dars stopped in her tracks. “Are you sure that was rice?”

“Well, I put it in boiling water and it inflated like rice, so I’m guessing it was a safe bet.” Sweetpea banged the side of the pot with the ladle, and Dars glared at her.

“Don’t sass your superior officers, lance-constable.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sweetpea, not even bothering to hide her smile. She took the bowl from Dars and scooped a generous helping of curry into it. Despite their stature, dwarfs could always put away an amazing amount of food. “Wherever were you hiding this bowl, anyway?”

“Ah, you never know when people are going to give you free food,” said Dars. She produced a tarnished spoon from somewhere in her breastplate and began to shovel curry into her mouth.

“Do people normally walk into the Watch house with food to give you?” Sweetpea asked, bemused.

“Not until now,” the constable said through a mouthful of food.

There was a great clattering from both sets of stairs, and Constables Fittly and Haddock came into the room just as Corporal Flint came down from his office. The corporal was holding a pink clacks sheet between his thumb and forefinger.

“Everyone listen up,” he said. “Pediment just brought in dis bulletin from der Yard.  Der Sto Kerrig Three have been sighted in town.”

There was a gasp from Fittly, and Haddock and Dars exchanged worried glances. Sweetpea was left feeling left out in the reactions department. Although, something that made watchmen nervous was almost guaranteed to be bad news.

“Who are the Sto Kerrig Three?” she asked.

“Haven’t you read the papers?” Fittly demanded.

“We didn’t hear much of the news in school,” she said. This had bothered her—surely clerks were supposed to keep up with the times, to know current events? There wasn’t much chance to leave the school grounds, what with classes, studies, and the strict meal schedules. A few of the older students, Sweetpea included were able to make it out about once a week to buy gum and cigarettes from the stand on the corner. Sweetpea or Chelsea would usually get the other something while they were out. Chelsea liked Jolly Sailor Tobacco, and Sweetpea liked reading the Klatchian-language edition of the _Times_. It was good practice.

Fittly shook his head, but it didn’t seem like much more of an explanation was forthcoming on that front. Haddock explained. “Back in March, there was a string of murders in Sto Kerrig. The Watch there didn’t know what to do—they’d never dealt with anything more serious than lace being stolen. Luckily there was a Sammie over there. Corporal… Glodsson, wasn’t it, Dars? He was able to find out that three blokes had done it. The newspapers across the plains started to call them the ‘Sto Kerrig Three’. But they were never caught.”

“Now that they’re here, they will be,” said Dars confidently. “That lot in Sto Kerrig don’t know what they’re doing, even if they did have an Ankh-Morpork-trained dwarf. Did the Yard send a description of them, Corporal?”

“Not gonna send iconos by clacks,” rumbled Corporal Flint, “Not when dey can send dem in der mail. Dey’ll be pictures posted by dis afternoon, I expect.” He sniffed the air. “Did somebody cook somefing?”

“That was me,” said Sweetpea. “Constable Fittly bought me some curry powder, so I made everybody curry. Although I’ve sort of lost my appetite now.”

“Dat was nice of Fittly,” said Flint, raising a craggy eyebrow.

“Yes,” said Sweetpea, smiling sweetly at Fittly. “It was.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sweetpea had been on the job three days, and it was amazing what a routine she’d fallen into. It wasn’t as if her patrols were on any sort of schedule—they seemed to happen at random, or whenever there was an early-morning patrol that nobody else wanted. Even when they were foisting off patrols on her, everybody accepted her, even Fittly (albeit a little begrudgingly).

On the third day, she came off of patrol sweaty and panting, high on adrenaline from her first chase. There was a golem post officer with a large package standing in the corner of the watch house.

“What’s he here for?” Sweetpea asked Dars, jerking her thumb towards the golem waiting patiently with its eyes dimmed. She moved rapidly out of the way as Corporal Flint went by, carrying their suspect under his arm.

“I think it’s got your new armor,” said Dars. “And since it’s a big package, you have to sign for it. I tried, but it wouldn’t let me.” She looked up at Flint and the would-be thief under his arm, looked back down at her desk, and scribbled a few notes.

Dars seemed to always be on desk duty. Sweetpea figured she had something worked out with the other constables. Sweetpea was content to stay out of that—barging into any arrangement might throw off the whole orbit of the thing. As she had just learned, chasing down criminals and unlicensed thieves was exhilarating, but patrols at oh dark thirty when every noise had the potential for danger weren’t her idea of a good time. A healthy balance of desk work and patrols was just what she needed.

“Armor that actually fits will be nice,” Sweetpea commented. She walked up to the golem and tapped him (it?) as far up on the arm as she could reach.

“Excuse me? I’m Sweetpea Hakim, I understand you have a package for me?”

The post officer’s eyes suddenly shone with life. In one huge, smooth movement, it deposited its package on the floor and produced a clipboard from gods-knew-where.

“Just Sign Here, Please,” it said. “There Is Also A Letter For You From Sergeant Angua of Pseudopolis Yard.”

“Oh, she must want me to liaise with the _Times_ about something,” said Sweetpea. She took the letter and stuck it into her belt, then signed the document on the clipboard with a flourish. The guild school hadn’t been able to beat a modest signature into her. Her note-taking penmanship was up to standard, but she couldn’t help but make her signature full of loops. It must have had something to do with learning to write in Klatchian alongside Morporkian.

“Thank you,” she said to the golem as it stomped out.

“You’re Welcome, Lance-Constable.”

Dars stood up, so as to better see over the desk. She nodded to the large package at Sweetpea’s feet

“Well? Go ahead and open it, then.”

Sweetpea didn’t need much more encouragement than that. She sliced open the cardboard and pulled out… several bucketfuls of packing peanuts. Beneath that was a gleaming breastplate, fresh chainmail, and a new helmet, all her very own. Sweetpea tried not to show her excitement too much as she discarded the old stuff and began buckling her custom armor on. She heard Dars clucking with disapproval.

“No, no, that won’t do.”

“What? Why?” Sweetpea asked with dismay.

“Not enough dents,” said Dars, shaking her head. “You need to get kicked by a few trolls, then it’ll look like real copper’s armor.”

A few days ago, this statement would have caused Sweetpea to pause. There was still a part of her that believed that she wasn’t a “real copper”, but it was drowned out by the rest of her saying _Not a real copper? Tell that to our legs, sore from chasing people. Tell that to our knuckles, bruised from punching the dummy Flint set up._ Dars was no less of a copper because she was on desk duty all the time, and Sweetpea wasn’t going to be any less of a copper when she had her own office. After all, Commander Vimes was in his office most of the day, and he practically invented modern coppering.

Speaking of Commander Vimes, she had received a letter in addition to the swanky new armor, hadn’t she? She pulled out the envelope and tore it open. Inside, in writing that she recognized as clerk guild-trained handwriting, it said:

_Lance-Constable Hakim—_

_There was a riot last night after the Dimmers and Dollies football game. The Dimwell Watch house constables were involved, as were seven other officers called in from the Yard. One of them was hurt, and it is believed that a further twelve people were injured. The final score of the game is unknown. The riot lasted twenty minutes, and ended when a soaking rain began to fall._

_Please pass this information on to the_ Times _. They always exaggerate the number of injured._

                                                                                    _Sergeant Angua_

_(pp Constable Pessimal)_

“Please pass this information” probably didn’t mean “write your own report on this and make it sound nice”, but Sweetpea was on desk duty and didn’t have anything better to do. If she was going to be press liaison, she was going to go above and beyond and liaise with an entire well-written report. They’d hired her for her clerking skills, after all.

\---------------

When Sweetpea left the watch house later that night, she found Constables Haddock and Dars waiting for her.

“This is a pleasant surprise," she said, coming down the steps with her report in hand. She was lucky to have made friends so early on the job. Fittly was, as Corporal Shoe had pointed out, just a “lad”, but Haddock and Dars seemed almost too good to be true. Haddock was a lot like Captain Carrot in that he saw the good in everyone. Dars didn’t care what people thought, and she aggressively liked what she liked or hated what she hated. Apparently, one of the things she aggressively liked was Sweetpea. No complaints were forthcoming from Sweetpea about this arrangement, that was for sure.

“We thought we would go for a drink,” Haddock said with a hopeful grin.

“Or a take-away,” suggested Dars. “Do you know any good Klatchian restaurants?”

Sweetpea sighed. “That’s really nice of you, and I wish I could, but I’ve got to drop this report about the football riot off at the _Times_ office.”

Haddock looked undeterred, as Sweetpea found he usually did in times of conflict. “Well, that’s all right. Their offices are on Gleam Street. So’s our pub.”

“ _Our_ pub—?”

“He means the Watch pub,” explained Dars. “The Bucket. They do a nice cider, at least. No quaffing if you don’t want to.”

Most female dwarves were averse to quaffing. It didn't sound as if Dars liked drinking much (at least, not at the Bucket), but she was willing to go out with her friends and that was good enough for Sweetpea. She sighed her assent, and they fell into step. Even without armor on, everyone they passed either gave them a wide berth or sniggered at them. It was the policeman's walk. You couldn't disguise it. Even a sleepwalking copper from a mile away on a dark night would be recognized.

After a few minutes of this, and having not gotten very far down the street, Sweetpea said impatiently,

“Could we go a bit faster? It’s going to be dark soon.”

“Sorry,” said Haddock sheepishly. They adopted a more normal gait.

“Shouldn't you have the Commander read that report before you hand it over to the newspaper?” Dars asked as they turned down Cable Street.

“Well, I thought so,” said Sweetpea. “But I think he’s bad with paperwork, so I should only have him check the really important stuff.”

“Who decides what's important?” Haddock asked.

“Uh, me,” Sweetpea admitted. “Although I’m supposed to ask the corporal if I'm not sure.”

They all thought about this for a bit. Although Corporal Flint was good at giving orders, and quite smarter than he was given credit for, the art of the written word eluded him. The troll didn’t even know how to hold a pencil without breaking it.

“Or, the commander said he’d let me know if anything was major enough,” Sweetpea said, finally. “Really, I'm just supposed to be learning how to be a copper right now. Once my probation gets signed off I’ll move to the Yard and sit at a desk most of the time.”

“Oh,” said Dars, sounding disappointed.

“You're not becoming fond of me, are you, Constable Ironcrust?” Sweetpea asked, lightly cuffing Dars’s helmet.

“We’re just going to miss having somebody smart in the Watch House,” Haddock teased.

Dars scowled up at him. “Hey, fishface, what’s that supposed to mean? I know _you_ haven’t got many brains, but that doesn’t apply to all of us.”

Laughing, they turned the corner onto Gleam Street. Sweetpea had never been on it before she joined the force. Besides the Bucket and the ever-growing offices of the newspaper, the street was full of empty buildings. If they were occupied it was never for long.

The three of them stopped outside the Bucket, where light and the murmur of voices spilled out of the open door. Sweetpea waved the report at her two friends.

“I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“We’ll save you a seat!” Dars called as she followed the eager Haddock inside.

“Yeah, order me a Lat!”

Sweetpea had quite the stomach for alcohol. It had something to do with imbibing so much knurd-inducing coffee throughout her life. She quite liked Sto Lat iced teas, since they didn’t actually taste like alcohol. This could be dangerous, however, as next thing you knew you'd drank four Lats and were, in fact, lateral on the ground.

She continued down the street to the _Times_ office, where the hungry press was always thumping. It shook the ground even outside the building. People were rushing around her with carts stacked high with bundles—presumably the evening edition. The office used to be in the sheds behind the Bucket, but they’d burned down in rather mysterious circumstances back in the cold snap of ‘90. Sweetpea, still in school at the time, hadn't been paying much attention to the tumultuous affair of the patricianship. Students at the Clerk’s Guild were only given so much coal, so she’d moved into Chelsea’s room where they pooled their coal and huddled together for warmth. Finally classes had been canceled when all the ink froze solid.

“Lance-Constable Hakim?”

Sweetpea looked down to see Boddony, second-in-command of the printing press. Sweetpea had learned that he was married to Mr. Goodmountain, but she wasn't sure what to call the two of them. “Husbands” didn't seem to be quite the right term, and their relationship was more of a business one than a marital one. Then again, Sweetpea had only known them for a few days. Her parents had owned a business together, and during the day they were constantly yelling at each other in order to keep the stand going. At home, they had a nauseating number of pet names for each other.

“Got anything for us?” the dwarf asked shortly.

“That’s why I'm here,” said Sweetpea, handing him the report. She thought she saw Boddony smile. “I’ve got a report here about the riot after the Dimmers and Dollies game. I’ll be able to get you more comprehensive information when I’m off my proba—who’s that?”

She broke off to stare at a woman who'd come rushing into the building, wild-eyed and breathless. The main floor of the office was so open that there wasn't much in the way of employees' view of the door. Heads of dwarves, humans, and other species alike were turning towards the newcomer.

“That's Jesslyn Obstrepity,” said Boddony with a frown. “She’s our religious correspondent. I’ve never seen her like that—she’s annoyingly straight-laced.”

The woman did indeed look as if she was usually respectable, but right now her hair was coming out of its tight bun and she was panting like a mime artist who was being chased by the Watch.

“Stop the press!” she yelled.

“Why do they always say that?” Boddony muttered. “It’s not as if it’s going anywhere.”

Mr. de Worde and Miss Cripslock, apparently attracted by the noise, joined the excited Jesslyn.

“What’s the story, Jesslyn?” Miss Cripslock asked, if only to stop the woman panting theatrically. “Is there a new god? Is one of the gods dead? Did a girl in the Ramtops become the Summer Lady again?”

“No, none of that.” Ms. Obstrepity flapped a piece of paper which presumably had the notes for her story on it. “All of the priests are saying that the gods are feeling neglected, and need to build up belief. They’re going to start performing miracles, getting people’s attention...we might even see some manifestations.”

“Do the gods think they’re not being believed in?” asked Mr. de Worde, a little incredulously. “But people go to church all the time. Er… don’t they?”

Jesslyn shook her head  sadly. “Worship and belief are two very different things, Mr. William. Except for the Anoians, all the major religions have seen a steady drop in membership over the last few years.”

Sweetpea thought guiltily of her own extremely erratic visits to the temple of Offler on Octedays. Maybe she should stop in for Deacon Jones’s sermons a little bit more often. Her soul could use a decent scrubbing, especially since she was a copper now. Once this story got out, other people were probably going to think the same thing. And if gods were going to start performing miracles, well. You never knew, It Could be You. Ankh-Morporkians had an unfailing sense of “what’s in it for me?” Maybe the gods had finally realized that.

“People have begun to rely on technology actually making their lives better, rather than just hoping that a god might,” said Ms Obstrepity. “As His Excellency Hughnon Ridcully said, they’re more concerned with their life than their afterlife.”

This was certainly true with Sweetpea, although her mother was the opposite. That was probably why, a dark part of Sweetpea’s mind suggested, that Nawar Hakim was in the ground and her daughter was not. Sweetpea slapped the thought away irritably. That sort of thinking could creep up on you if you weren’t careful.

“I can see that you have a lot to do,” Sweetpea said to Boddony. “I’d better leave you to it.”

“Yeah,” said the dwarf absently. He was watching Jesslyn dictate a story to Goodmountain, while de Worde suggested more diplomatic ways to structure certain sentences. Dwarfs didn’t have any gods that Sweetpea was aware of, although she knew that they were highly superstitious. Sweetpea wasn’t surprised that Boddony was interested in this story, though. Gods manifesting in the street, whether they were your gods or not, probably played merry hell with the traffic.

She passed a three-way argument on including swear words in direct quotations and exited the offices. She had a drink waiting for her at the Bucket.

“What kept you?” Dars asked when Sweetpea joined them in a booth. This time of night, the bar was full of coppers both in and out of uniform. At least, she assumed the non-uniformed ones were Watch members, but then again ordinary people didn’t drink like they’d seen a double homicide.

“Big story broke while I was there,” Sweetpea explained. “Apparently, the gods have decided that people aren’t worshiping them enough.”

“They’re not going to start smiting people, are they?” asked Haddock in alarm.

“I don’t think so. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’re going to start with the Celestial Carrot rather than the Holy Stick.”

“What does that mean, for those of us who don’t speak in metaphor?” Dars asked. Her sherry was almost empty. Sweetpea took a drink of her own Sto Lat iced tea; it wasn’t bad.

“As I understand it, they’re going to start performing miracles and such—start giving people incentives to worship them.” She took another long pull of her Lat. “That is good. Don’t let me have too many of these.”

“I can’t imagine that this’ll affect us much,” said Haddock. “Coppers don’t believe in gods—well, most of us don’t, anyway—and if people are getting religious then crime rates might actually go down.”

“Not among the dwarfs and trolls,” Dars pointed out. Her sherry was empty by now, and she was looking hopefully towards the bartender for a refill. “I can’t imagine the troll gods getting involved, and Tak just doesn’t do visitations.”

“Who or what is Tak?” Sweetpea asked.

Constable Haddock put his hands on the table and began to scooch himself out of the booth.

“If we’re going to get into _that_ conversation, I should really start heading to work.”

“Work?” repeated Sweetpea. “But you’ve only just come off duty.”

“I pull night shifts at the bank sometimes,” said Haddock. He took a dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the table. “I hardly ever get to sleep nowadays, but it pays the bills. You know how rent is.”

After Haddock had gone, accompanied by a bar-wide call of “Goodbye, Kipper!”, Sweetpea turned to Dars.

“What is Tak and why did it make Haddock so eager to leave?”

Dars barked a humorless laugh. “Tak is the creator of the world, according to the dwarf view. Haddock left because once I start talking theology it eventually turns into feminism.”

“I wouldn’t mind a crash course in feminism,” said Sweetpea. “And we’ve got time.”

Dars grinned, but this time there was genuine humor behind it. “You’ll regret you said that. Let me start by saying that gender is a totally made-up social construct…”

When Dars realized that Sweetpea was genuinely interested, she unleashed her full torrent of gender politics. Most of it was from a dwarfish perspective, which was extremely interesting to Sweetpea, and what wasn’t about dwarfs Sweetpea by and large already knew. She was an adult woman, after all, and had experienced enough casual sexism over time to casually pummel her into a mold of societal expectations. The way she acted, the way _everyone_ acted, according to Dars, was all to do with societal expectations.

“How do you know all this?” Sweetpea asked when Dars paused for breath somewhere amidst an explanation of the cult of masculinity. “Good grief, there’s enough for a school course here. And dwarf women haven’t even been openly female for that long.”

“Ever since Cheery Littlebottom started wearing a dress,” said Dars dreamily. “The first openly female dwarf, and we work at the same place.” Her eyes slid back into focus. “I’m smitten, according to Lars Skulldrinker, but I don’t even know what gender Sergeant Littlebottom is attracted to. Lars is the one who taught me a lot of this stuff, when I first joined the Watch. The stuff about humans, I got from a book. You won’t find it in any bookstores—copies just sort of get passed around. I’ll see if I can get you one. Aphilia Parsnip is the author’s name.”

It might have been the two Sto Lats she’d had by then, but something gave Sweetpea enough courage to ask. “And what about interspecies same-sex relationships? People seem okay with both separately, but what would they say if you combined them?”

“I don’t know if there are any of those,” said Dars thoughtfully. “Yet. But this is Ankh-Morpork. They’d probably say ‘how indecent’, but by the end of the first week everyone’d be used to it.”

Sweetpea almost said “I hope you’re right”, but her courage didn’t extend quite that far.

\---------------

She didn’t work again until the next night, so Sweetpea spent her day off sleeping and looking over the coffee stand’s accounts. It was in trouble, but then again it always was. Rent in Sator Square ate up the most money, but if they moved they’d lose a lot of their customer base. Now that Sweetpea was working and providing income for the family, rather than her tuition draining money from it, they might do okay. Hasan refused to fire his solitary employee Fatiha. He insisted that he couldn’t run the stand without her, which was probably true, but he was also a little sweet on her. Sweetpea liked the woman and would be perfectly happy if Hasan married her. It wasn’t looking all that likely at this point that Sweetpea was ever going to have kids, and she held a deep-rooted Klatchian belief that somebody needed to carry on the Hakim family name. It wasn’t all that heavy of a name, but it would still be a shame if somebody were to drop it.

Sweetpea didn’t mention any of this to Hasan, since neither of them enjoyed discussing relationships. They did talk about going to the temple more often, though. The city had been abuzz with sudden religious fervor after the _Times_  headline “Gods Taking Notice”. Hasan was no more devout than Sweetpea was, but they both agreed that while Offler had certainly been keeping track of their Octeday visits, he was no doubt doing so even more carefully now.

It was in this thoughtful frame of mind that Sweetpea headed to work. This evening’s patrol was to be her first out into the Shades. It was still light out, since even coppers didn’t go into the Shades at night unless they absolutely had to. Corporal Flint hadn’t hesitated to put her on patrols right away, but that didn’t mean that you let a rookie patrol the Shades on her first day out.

“I’ll be right wid you der whole time,” he’d assured her when she’d first seen the roster. She wasn’t going to be allowed a sword, though, on account of not knowing how to use one yet. Apparently one of Commander Vimes’ maxims was “a weapon you don’t know how to use is your enemy’s”.

When she got to the Watch house, only Haddock and Fittly were there. Haddock explained that Dars and Corporal Flint were still out dealing with an extreme case of domestic violence, and even had to call in forensics from the Yard.

“The corporal clacksed us and said to go ahead with your patrol, though,” said Haddock, trying to sound upbeat. “I’ll be taking you out tonight instead.”

He had a fully-loaded crossbow all ready, which didn’t help Sweetpea’s nerves much. Crossbows were not general patrolling equipment, since you only carried a crossbow if you a) intended to use it and b) were going to really, really need to slow somebody down.

"Do I get one of those?” she asked                

“Not unless you have hitherto unmentioned ballistics experience,” said Haddock. “Sorry. We don’t want new recruits shooting themselves in the foot, especially when the triggers on these Mk. 5s are so responsive.”

“So it goes.” This was a clerk saying that Sweetpea found applied aptly to a lot of coppering situations. It was a rather apathetic saying, however, which is why she refrained from saying it too much.

“You’ll be fine, lass,” said Haddock when he saw how crestfallen she looked. “I’m going to be right with you the whole time, and the Shades are a lot safer than most people think.”

“Let’s get it over with, then,” said Sweetpea.

“That’s the spirit.” Haddock slapped her on the back and then was forced to shake some life back into his hand.

The Watch house really was on the edge of the Shades.They were just a few steps away from the unofficial but still very visible line that marked its border. The line was visible because of the light difference: the erratically built and repaired buildings of the Shades bent together and blocked out what little sunlight managed to filter through the smog. Sweetpea knew that plenty of people lived and worked in the Shades. Unfortunately, the concentration of people that worked as unlicensed thieves was higher than anywhere else in Ankh-Morpork. It was better than it had been, but that wasn’t saying much.

Haddock led her down Pewter Street, keeping up an interesting commentary about the revolution that had been fought here thirty years ago (almost thirty-two years to the day, in fact). According to some it had been successful, and according to others it had been a total disaster. All that Haddock knew was that a few coppers had fought in it and survived. Including Reg Shoe, technically.

“Technically?”

“Technically in that he survived, but as a zombie, and I call that surviving,” explained Haddock. “Do you hear something?”

They both stopped.

“No,” said Sweetpea, and that was when she was grabbed from behind. She cried out in surprise and fear as her unseen attacker pressed a cold blade to her neck. But Haddock was just as quick with his weapon, and in the blink of an eye he had his crossbow aimed to the left of Sweetpea’s ear.

“Drop the knife and step away from the lance-constable,” Haddock said levelly. Sweetpea couldn’t understand how calm he was. His hands weren’t even shaking. Sweetpea herself didn’t dare quiver, not with a knife at her neck.

“Or, an alternative,” suggested the man holding Sweetpea. His voice was soft and awful. “You put down the crossbow and the pretty lady here doesn’t get her throat sliced.” The man lowered his voice and whispered in Sweetpea’s ear, “And you are such a pretty lady, aren’t you? An exotic woman is the best kind.”

Sweetpea shuddered. “Don’t do it, Kipper.”

“Well, the way I see it, Mister, the lance-constable is wearing protective clothing and you’re not,” said Haddock slowly. “If I were to shoot this it wouldn’t do nearly as much damage to her as it would to you.”

It might have worked, had there not been two other men. Sweetpea saw them creeping up behind Constable Haddock and yelled a warning.

“Watch out, Kip!”

Haddock didn’t even look—he thrust his elbow out behind him, catching one man in the middle. Then he whirled around and kicked the other in the groin. With this distraction, Sweetpea tried a little close-up fighting of her own. She twisted her arm behind her in an effort to jab the man holding her in the solar-plexus. That was the theory. In reality, he was holding her too tightly. She got a nasty slice on the collarbone for her trouble. Haddock had taught her a few Bhangbhangduc throws, but it was too hard with her new armor on and the pain coming from her shoulder. There was a scream and she looked up from her own struggles to see that they had got Haddock’s crossbow away from him.

And had shot him in the foot.

No matter how good of a copper or solid fighter he was, Haddock was down for the count. He lay with his knee curled to his breastplate, breathing in choking gasps. The man holding Sweetpea suddenly spun her around to face him, and she saw his face for the first time. He had a birthmark on his cheek and red hair, and she thought she recognized him. That’s when it clicked for her. She recognized him from his wanted posters.

“The Sto Kerrig Three!” she gasped.

“That’s what they call us, miss,” said the red-headed man in his soft and awful voice. Then in a swift movement that made Sweetpea flinch, he yanked her truncheon from her belt. “Although since we’re in the big city now, hopefully they’ll give us a better name.”

He swung the truncheon towards Sweetpea’s face, and her last thought was _I’m going to have another black eye_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, three months later (gosh, has it been that long? Sorry, guys) here's an update! It isn't as long as I was originally intending, but I figured it was better to get something posted.  
> Finally, the plot arrives.

Haddock had blacked out briefly while they were carrying Sweetpea off, but now that he was conscious again shame overruled his pain. He was the nearly-lance-corporal, she was the new recruit, and he had just let them take her off to do gods knew what. Well, he was pretty sure he knew what, and since he thought he recognized the Sto Kerrig Three, it wasn’t going to be survivable.

Haddock pulled the barely-used bell from his belt and rang it as hard as he could. They hadn’t gotten very far from the Watch house, and hopefully Pediment would hear it and alert Fittly. How good were gargoyle’s ears, anyway?

He rang until he couldn’t ring any longer and his arm fell to the ground in exhaustion. Just as he stopped, he heard running footsteps. In fact, it sounded like a small earthquake, but that meant that Corporal Flint was on his way. Dars was probably with him. She was going to go absolutely librarian.

His line of sight wasn’t very good from down here on the ground, but thankfully when Dars skidded to a halt in front of him, she knelt down to see him better. She wasn’t even trying to hide her look of alarm.

“Haddock, are you all right? Where’s Lance-Constable Hakim?”

“It was the Sto Kerrig Three,” he groaned. “They attacked us—shot me in the foot and dragged Hakim off.”

“The Sto Kerrig--!” Dars began, but the corporal interrupted her.

“Constable Haddock needs to be taken to der Free Hospital,” he said. “Constable Ironcrust, alert der Yard. Tell dem we need someone wid a good sense o’ smell over here right away.”

Flint picked Haddock carefully up, but the constable still gasped as his foot was jolted. The corporal began striding towards Treacle Mine Road. Every footfall made the windows on nearby buildings rattle. Dars jogged along to keep up.

“But sir, somebody should go after Hakim right away! There’s no telling what the Three are going to do to her, she might even be dead by now! Let Fittly and I go—“

“No, constable,” Flint said with all the sharpness of his namesake. “You too invested. And der Shades might be mostly safe, but if we start knockin’ on doors at night dere’ll be trouble. We need backup.”

“We need to go after her!” Dars insisted. The corporal stopped. The Watch house was visible just down the street.

“Go clacks der Yard, Ironcrust. Dat’s an order.”

Flint waited until Dars had started towards the station before heading in the direction of Goosegate.

“Sir, I think Lance-Constable Hakim might be alive,” whispered Haddock. Any louder and his words would turn into a scream; his foot was in agony. “If they’d wanted to kill her right away they would have done it in front of me, and I’d probably be dead too. But they carried her off. Somewhere.” Haddock stopped. It wasn’t just his foot that was causing him pain. “I should have done something different, sir. I let them—“

“You didn’t let dem do anyfing,” said Flint. “You fought back. If it anyone’s fault it mine. I should have been der one to take Hakim out on patrol in der Shades.”

He looked down at Haddock, but the constable had fallen unconscious again.

\---------------

“Urgent clacks, sir!” cried Carrot as he thundered up the steps to Vimes's office.

“What?” the commander of the Watch asked, jumping up. “Is there another riot? I didn’t think there was a game today.”

“No, sir, it's worse.” Carrot handed him the pink slip of the clacks. “Lance-Constable Hakim's been kidnapped, sir.”

Vimes stared down uncomprehendingly at the short message from Constable Ironcrust. “Hakim, Hakim...and why would an officer get kidnapped, not taken hostage?”

“You know, the press liaison?” Carrot prompted.

“ _Sweetpea_ Hakim?" Vimes shouted. " _Her_? Oh, gods. Who would be so stupid as to kidnap a Watch officer? All the criminals around here know that assaulting one's a hanging offense.”

“That’s the thing, sir,” said Carrot. “They’re not from around here. The men who took her were the Sto Kerrig Three.”

Vimes bit back a swear word and began buckling on his sword.

“Get Angua on the case,” he growled. “We don’t want those bastards’ kill count to rise any further.”

\---------------

Sweetpea struggled out of unconsciousness. She blearily took stock of her surroundings. She was in some kind of enclosed space, and there was rowdy laughter nearby. The noise sent her head aching—most of the pain was coming from her eye. What had…?

The laughter coalesced into three separate voices, men’s voices, and then she remembered. Ah, yes. The Sto Kerrig Three. She was going to die.

Gone was her new armor; she had been stripped down to her tunic and leggings. It didn’t look like they’d touched her otherwise. That probably wasn’t going to last very long. The best she could hope for at this point was that it would be quick.

It may have been the fear of death talking, but a strange thought came into Sweetpea’s head: what did you do at death’s door?

You prayed.

With some difficulty in the cramped space, Sweetpea got down on her knees and clasped her hands together. It had been a while since she’d done this. The last time…was the day her mother died. She might be seeing her mother soon.

“Please,” she whispered. “To Offler—to anybody listening. I know you’re listening more carefully now. I need help, from anybody. These men are going to kill me, and I could really use a miracle.”

There was a sudden shift in the world—or at least, the part of the world containing Sweetpea Hakim. There was the sensation of the back of her head being opened and light pouring in. It was the strangest thing Sweetpea had ever experienced. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but there was the feeling that something in her head was too big to be contained by a mere mortal skull.

_As it happens, I was listening. And you’re just the sort of person I’ve been looking for,_ said a voice in her head.

“Who are you?” whispered Sweetpea. “Are you a god?” Although she had been praying, prayers didn’t usually work like that. It was just as likely that the voice in her head was just a demon pretending to be a god.

_Got it in one. I’m Seven-Handed Sek. I’m sure you’ve heard of me._

“Of course. You’re the god of…Well, you’ve got a lot of things covered. Healing, writing…brick-laying, for some reason.”

_Yes, there’s a funny story about that. But right now worship is down and I need a part-time vessel to represent me here on the Disc. An avatar, in fact. You, Sweeptea Hakim, are ideal._

“Why me?” Sweetpea asked suspiciously. This was all rather convenient. “If I were to claim any god it’d be Offler. Why don’t you use one of your own followers as an avatar? Though far be it from me to criticize a god,” she added quickly.

_None of them have actually lined up to volunteer._ The voice in Sweetpea’s head sounded embarrassed, as far as that was possible. _But here you are, asking for help. I figured that you’d be willing, in your hour of need._

There were footsteps, close by. One of the men’s voices sounded as if he were right next to the closet door. Sweetpea weighed her current future up against the idea of doing some light miracle work a few times a week.

“What do I have to do?”

_Well, I’m very careful about making sure my avatars are consenting. So you have to give verbal consent before I can possess you._

There was a rattle at the doorknob. Sweetpea jumped to her feet. Demon or no, she wanted to get out of this current predicament in one piece. She could worry about being possessed later.

“YesIconsentnowpleasehurry!”

The light that had been threatening to make Sweetpea’s head explode moved to fill her whole body. The uncomfortable feeling was a lot more manageable. That is, until Sweetpea realized that her limbs weren’t obeying her.

_I can’t—I can’t move!_ She said in her own head, not with her own mouth.

“Relax,” said Sek with _her_ mouth, and flexed _her_ limbs. “You’re the passenger for a while. Just watch.”

The door to the closet opened, and Sek (using Sweetpea’s body) promptly kicked the man who had opened it in the face. The man staggered backwards, and Sek followed him, almost casually punching him in the ribs, stomach, and throat.

“The first hand of Sek is the hand of helping,” said Sek conversationally. They pulled the man towards them and kneed him in the fork. Sweetpea saw, from behind her own eyes, that the two other men were sitting at a ragged couch. One of them jumped up.

“Hey!” he yelled. Sek executed a double flying kick that sent him backwards.

“The second hand is the hand of healing,” she said to the room. Sweetpea didn’t know that her body could move like that. She was impressed.

The first man that Sek had dealt with punched them from behind in the ribcage. Removed as she was from her own body, Sweetpea could only feel a ghost of the pain. Sek seemed to ignore it entirely. But as they turned to punch the man, Sweetpea saw the knife dripping with blood.

_He stabbed you! Me—us!_ Sweetpea said, her indignity somewhat marred by her pronoun confusion.

“Stab a god, would you?” Sek asked as the punch connected with his jaw. “Of course, you don’t know I’m a god, but that sort of makes it worse. You really were in trouble here, Hakim.”

_Behind us!_ said Sweetpea by way of a response. Sek backhanded the third man, but not before he wildly fired off his crossbow. Sweetpea felt that one land, right in the shoulder. It didn’t stop Sek. They bowled right into him, knocking him to the floor.

“The third hand of Sek is the hand of cooking,” Sek said to the man groaning beneath them. They somersaulted off of him and chopped the last man in the throat.

“The fourth hand of Sek is the hand of vengeance.”

The man gurgled and fell to the floor. Sek looked around at the three men lying around the room, in various stages of pain or unconsciousness.

“And then there are some more, but honestly I can never remember the last three. Okay, Hakim, I’ve got things to do. I’m giving you back control now. Be talking to you soon.”

The light permeating Sweetpea’s body began to fade, sucked back up through the trapdoor in the back of her mind.

_Hey—wait! Once you go, won’t everything start to—_

“Hurt,” she finished. Thus back in control of her body, she promptly fell over. Apparently, Sweetpea’s body agreed that she hadn’t physically been able to execute most of those moves. One of her legs was dislocated, or at least had a few muscles pulled. The stab wound in her back was oozing, and so was the place in her shoulder where the crossbow bolt was still stuck. There were a dozen other hurts all over, ones she hadn’t noticed while the golden light was filling her body.

“Eyurgh,” she mumbled.

SWEETPEA HAKIM?

A hooded figure extended a very thin hand and helped her up. All of Sweetpea’s pain was gone, and in fact she felt very light and free. She looked up into a skull, with blue eyes twinkling amiably.

“That’s me,” she said. “Er…Mr Death.”

JUST DEATH WILL DO. He regarded the body at his feet, which Sweetpea realized with a jolt was her own. She thought that maybe she should be panicking but was aware of this only in the way that a city-dweller is aware of, say, trees.

I GOT TO YOU AS SOON AS I COULD, Death said gravely. I KNOW YOU WERE IN QUITE A LOT OF PAIN. THESE MEN WILL GET WHAT’S COMING TO THEM. EVENTUALLY.

“Thanks,” said Sweetpea. “But, uh, Sek sort of appeared unto me and saved me from all that.”    

DID THEY? OH BOTHER.

Death reached into his robes and pulled out an hourglass. There was a decent amount of sand at the bottom, but at the top all the grains were golden.

YOU’RE AN AVATAR, sighed Death like wind moaning through a graveyard. WELL, I WISH THEY WOULD HAVE GIVEN ME MORE NOTICE. I HAVE A SCHEDULE TO KEEP, YOU KNOW.

“I expect you do,” said Sweetpea politely. “Does this mean I can go back to my body?”

YES, GO ON, said Death somewhat crossly. I SHALL SEE YOU AGAIN IN… He looked from Sweetpea, to the hourglass, and back. A WHILE.

\---------------

Sergeant Angua was still pulling on her armor as she spoke to the Watchmen before her.

“It’s that building there, I’m sure of it. I smelled her, as well as three men. Er…this is a little strange, but Hakim and the men are all unconscious.”

“But she’s alive?” Dars asked anxiously. She was gripping a short-handled, very sharp-looking axe. Angua glanced at Vimes and Carrot before saying to the dwarf,

“Yes, Constable Ironcrust, she’s alive. But I smelled a lot of blood.”

“If the SK Three are unconscious, then we should go in now before they wake up,” said Commander Vimes. He was holding a loaded crossbow, along with the sword at his belt. “Carrot, Fittly, Ironcrust—on my signal.”

It was a good thing they’d left Angua outside. Lance-Constable Hakim was lying just inside the door, covered in blood. Upon close inspection, it was revealed to be mostly hers. Dars was almost insensible with a rage to rival Vimes’s own, and it was a good thing Carrot was there to keep police brutality to a minimum. With Fittly’s help, he cuffed the men and dragged them outside. Vimes decided that it would be too dangerous to move Sweetpea. He almost sent Dars to get an ambulance, then saw the gleam in her eye and thought better of it.

“Angua!” Vimes yelled out the open door. “We’re going to need to get Hakim to the hospital right away. Find the nearest clacks tower and have them send an ambulance to this location. Code OOO.”

 ---------------

Sweetpea woke up, which was unexpected. She was lying in a cool white bed, which was nice, but her whole body was numb, which was rather unpleasant. Her neck was working, though, and she was able to lift her head high enough to see that she was in the hospital. Furthermore, a familiar dwarf was dozing in a chair at her bedside.

“Hello, Dars,” she said hoarsely. Dars snapped awake and launched herself towards Sweetpea’s bed.

“Sweetpea! Oh, you—you’re—they didn’t think you’d be awake so soon.”

Dars seemed rather flustered, and Sweetpea realized that this dwarf, whom she’d only known for a few days, had been sleeping by her bedside, waiting for her to wake up. Dars was worried. The realization sent a warm sensation throughout the body that Sweetpea couldn’t feel.

“But what happened, Sweetpea?” Dars asked. “When Sergeant Angua found you, it looked like there’d been a huge fight. Did you take out the Sto Kerrig Three all by yourself?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” said Sweetpea weakly.

“Oh, of course, Hasan will want to know you’re up.” Dars crossed the room to the door, and Sweetpea followed by severely craning her neck.

“Hasan is here?” Well, of course he was. He was probably worried sick. The thought almost brought Sweetpea to tears.

“I quite like him, you know,” said Dars from the door. “I think he appreciated having company while you were in surgery. He’s getting a sandwich now, I’ll just go and fetch him. Poor lad—he hasn’t eaten since you got here six hours ago.”

Before Swetpea got the chance to ask any more questions, Dars was out the door and down the hall. Sweetpea let her head fall back on the pillow and tried to take it all in. The Sto Kerrig Three had kidnapped her, Seven-Handed Sek had possessed her in order to help her escape, she’d met Death, the Watch had found her somewhere in there, and now she was in the Free Hospital—probably in the John Keel Wing for injured Watchmen.

Right now, her biggest concern was Sek. The god obviously wanted to use her as an avatar more than once. 

Once again, there was the feeling of a back door opening in Sweetpea’s head, and suddenly she was sharing her head with another presence.

_I said I’d be back, didn’t I? Sorry I had to leave so suddenly. I heard you thinking about me—Hang on. Where are you? Why can’t you feel anything?_

“I’m in the hospital, and they’ve got me on anesthesia,” Sweetpea explained. “When you left me so suddenly, I was kind of injured.”

 _Hospital, eh? Well, we can’t have that—weeks of recovery time and physical therapy? You won’t be back on the streets for a month at least. I’m going to need you up and running long before that_.

The numbness in Sweetpea’s body faded away to be replaced by—not excruciating pain, as she’d been expecting—but rather, a feeling of freshness. Sweetpea quickly sat up and felt her shoulders. Gone was the slash in her collarbone, gone was the crossbow wound in her other shoulder, gone even was the soreness in her legs from unaccustomed walking.

“I’m healed,” she said in disbelief.

 _Of course you are. Healing is my second hand,_ said Sek smugly.

“This is a hospital, isn’t it?” Sweetpea tossed the covers aside and got out of bed. “We could go around and heal everyone!”

 _I knew there was reason I picked you,_ said Sek. _Well done me. No, Hakim, we can’t do that. Miracles are to be done sparingly. I think we’d better work out some terms before we proceed any further._

“All right,” said Sweetpea, and reluctantly sat back down on the bed. “First of all, thank you for saving me. You can use my body to do whatever you want—under two conditions.”

 _How come_ you’re _setting the conditions?_ Sek squawked.

“I don’t think they’ll be too hard for you to follow,” said Sweetpea. “And if they are, I’ll be a little worried. I’m practically giving you an all-access pass.”

 _Go ahead_ , said Sek grudgingly.

“One: I still get to be a Watchman.”

_How can you possibly be an avatar and hold a job?_

“Avataring isn’t going to be a full-time position, is it?” asked Sweetpea with some alarm. She couldn’t imagine being possessed all the time, never being in control of her own body…

 _Of course not!_ Said Sek, sounding just as horrified. _I couldn’t inhabit a mortal body for very long, it’s extremely…limiting. And besides, I’ll have business to take care of up in Cori Celesti._

“So why do you want to take on an avatar?” Sweetpea asked. She was thinking very carefully. Sek didn’t seem to be intruding on her private thoughts, but that might be courtesy more than anything else. They were a god, after all—omnipotent, or omnipresent, or one of those things.

_It’s mostly courtesy, yes. I can’t hear your low-level thoughts without concentrating._

“Oh—I didn’t—”

_Talking is still best. Don’t worry, I couldn’t access your subconscious even if I wanted to. That would be like you trying to interpret the thoughts of a dog._

“Thanks a lot,” said Sweetpea more sourly than she meant to.

_But anyway, to answer your original question: avatars are how we gods used to gather believers in the old days. That and impregnating people. Much easier than a physical manifestation. If your avatar is really cooperative, you can almost be in two places at once. I’m going to need you to set up some time with the Mother Superior of my order. I think the current one is a woman named Antonelle, or possibly Abagaila. It’s so hard to keep track._

“So do you agree to my first condition or not?” Sweetpea pressed, aware that Sek had skillfully steered the conversation—for lack of a word describing talking out loud to the voice in your head—off track.

_Yes, I suppose. Not my fault if you’re exhausted from watchman and avatar duties all the time. But I did say I only wanted a part-time avatar. What’s the other condition?_

“When you possess me, you can only use my body to do good.”

The presence in Sweetpea’s head was silent for a long while. Sweetpea would have worried that Sek had left, except for the fact that her head was still full of a light it could barely contain.

“Sek?”

_Quiet, I’m thinking. Yes. Yes, I think that miracles will be the best way to attract followers. Any smiting I might do will not be through you. That’s fair._

“How long will this go on for?” Sweetpea asked.

 _Hm. I can’t see it being a permanent affair. Once people are believing in gods—mainly me--and when I’m certain that they’ll be doing so for a while, then I’ll be using you less and less._ Sek paused. _As far as I know, I’m the first god to have thought of using an avatar. Once you start doing miracles, other gods will want to get their own avatars._

“Do you think I’ll be in any danger?”

_As my avatar? Good me, no. When I’m possessing you, you won’t come to any harm._

“And when you’re not possessing me?” Sweetpea probed, with a policeman’s knack for noticing what wasn’t said.

_Rest assured that I’ll be keeping an eye on you. I went through all the trouble of rescuing you and healing you. I’m not going to just let some punk stab you in an alleyway._

A thought came to Sweetpea’s mind of some crazed follower of Om, or even Blind Io, attacking her. The vision must have been so strong that Sek was forced to say,

_If any of the other gods touch you, they’ll have me to deal with up in Cori Celesti. And trust me, I’m the equal of all the major gods up there. Offler isn’t going to get away with anything._

“Oh, _you_ ,” Sweetpea exclaimed. “Offler. Do you think he’ll be mad? I mean, I sort of am Offlian. By blood if not by practice.”

 _I’ll talk to him_ , Sek promised. _I can’t guarantee that his followers won’t be angry at you. I daresay you know quite a few local parishioners._

“Yes, I do,” Sweetpea groaned. She could just hear the outraged questions.

“What are you doing up?” demanded a voice from the door. Yes, like that.

“Sweetie, how can you possibly be moving?”

Hasan and Dars were standing together at the door to Sweetpea’s hospital room.

 _I could give a demonstration_ , Sek suggested. _That would explain things pretty quickly._

“That’ll be a last resort, Sweetpea muttered. To her brother and Dars she said, “Stop gawking and come in, you two. I’ll explain things, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll believe me.”

Dars took the chair, and Hasan hovered protectively by Sweetpea’s bed.

 _Is this your brother?_ Sek asked. _He’s been crying._

It was easy to see once Sek had pointed it out. Hasan’s eyes were red, and a used hanky was sticking out of his pocket. Sweetpea pulled him onto the bed next to her and squeezed him in a huge hug. Hasan gratefully returned the hug.

“Okay,” said Dars impatiently. “Sibling love is great and all, but I need an explanation right now.”

 _Ooh, I like her_ , said Sek.

 _Me too,_ Sweetpea thought to herself, and hoped Sek hadn’t heard.

“After the Sto Kerrig Three got me, I woke up in this closet somewhere and started to pray. I didn’t care who heard, I just wanted a miracle.”

“And the gods are being extra receptive,” Hasan interrupted.

“Yes, dear brother, but please be quiet. To my surprise, it wasn’t Offler who answered my prayers but Seven-Handed Sek. They offered to take care of the SK3 if I agreed to be their avatar here on the Disc.”

“And you must have agreed,” said Dars. Sweetpea glared at her. “Sorry. Pray, continue.”

“I did agree. Sek possessed me and gave the Sk3 a righteous beating. Unfortunately, in the process I was severely injured. I suppose you know this part of the story, Dars—I wasn’t awake for it.”

“The Watch takes care of their own,” said Dars proudly. “We all worked on getting you back. Captain Angua, Captain Carrot, even Commander Vimes helped rescue you.” She looked Sweetpea up and down. “Although it looks like you rescued yourself.”

 “Sek rescued me,” Sweetpea corrected. “Otherwise I don’t think you would have found me alive in there.”

“Let’s not think about that,” said Hasan with a shudder. "But how are you up and about so quickly? The doctors said you wouldn't be able to walk for a few days."

"One of Sek's hands is the hand of healing," said Sweetpea. "They didn't want me to have to lie around in a hospital bed while I could be performing miracles for them."

“I know hardly anything about Sek," admitted Hasan. "You’re going to have to do some research.”

“Yes,” said Sweetpea slowly. “Yes, I think I am.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I haven't updated in a while. Unfortunately I only get the motivation to write while I'm into Discworld, which comes and goes against my wishes. Rest assured, that this is probably going to be a novel-length story. I have it all planned out, I just have to actually write the darn thing. This chapter isn't going to be the usual length, but I figured it was better to put up what I had than putting it off.

Sweetpea sent Dars and Hasan home. She didn’t know what time of day it was, but she figured that they needed some sleep. Sek wasn’t all there. Sweetpea could tell that they were keeping one godly eye on her. Not fully paying attention, but ready to snap into Sweetpea’s body if there was any danger. It was actually nice. Sweetpea had a bodyguard that was a god. A bodygod.

Feeling more confident than ever, Sweetpea decided to test out her healed legs. She threw off the covers and fairly sprang out of bed. She felt light on her feet, like a cat, ready for anything. Now, Haddock had to be around here somewhere. That foot wound had looked bad, and he didn’t have a god on his side to heal quickly. He did now.

Sweetpea had been expecting to share a room, but the John Keel wing wasn’t as crowded as other wings in the hospital unless it was an emergency. She didn’t know who John Keel was, except that he must have been important to Dr. Lawn, who had had the hospital built.

She opened her door and glanced down the hallway both ways. There were a few nurses, both male and female, at the end of the hall. If she was quiet they wouldn’t notice. Someone would be coming to check on her soon; she had to be quick.

Her bare feet made no noise as she padded down the hall. The floors had been scrubbed clean recently, and the antiseptic stung her feet. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had her boots. Was she wearing them in that closet? As she tried to remember, her mind suddenly balked from the memory. Her breath quickened and her heart was pounding as if she’d just run several blocks. What was wrong with her? She wanted to stop thinking about being in that closet, about getting stabbed, getting shot, getting stabbed, getting stabbed—

“Hakim?”

The voice saved her from thinking of the sensation over and over again. It was Haddock’s voice. In Sweetpea’s panic, she hadn’t realized that she’d stopped right in front of an open door. Trying to lever himself to a better viewing position from inside was Constable Haddock, looking both confused and worried. She took a few gasping breaths and laughed.

“H-hey, Haddock.” She sniffed and walked into his room. He stared at her in astonishment, and she twirled around to demonstrate that she was, in fact, walking. He continued to stare, but his expression was one of relief and, yes, joy.

“You’re okay,” he said softly. “You’re okay!” he exclaimed. “Sweetpea, when they found you they thought you were dead.”

“I _was_ dead,” she explained. She came close to his bed and leaned on it with both her hands. “I met Death and everything. But Sek saved me, Haddock. Seven-Handed Sek. I’m going to be their avatar.”

_Sek?_ she thought. _Can I get an assist?_

_Miracle number one,_ Sek agreed, making their presence felt fully. _And don’t feel so surprised. Hand of healing and all that._

_I’m just glad,_ Sweetpea thought. Out loud she said,

“I know it’s a lot to take in. But being an avatar has its perks. Would you like to not be in bed for the next few weeks?”

Haddock was still dumbfounded. “Of course, but—“

“The first hand of Sek,” said Sek, “Is the hand of healing.”

They laid Sweetpea’s hands on Haddock’s foot through the covers. From Haddock’s perspective, Sweetpea’s eyes turned a glowing white and her hair blew in a celestial wind. Her hands surged with divine light, and suddenly all feeling was back in Haddock’s foot. He wiggled it, gingerly at first, and then rolled it enthusiastically. Totally normal.

“Whew,” said Sweetpea, staggering backwards a bit. “That was dramatic.”

_Gods like a light show every now and then,_ said Sek. _It’s not at all necessary, but it looks great._

“That thing with the eyes was—wow.”

_Next time I’d like to do miracles a little bit more deliberately. But a hurt foot is small change. Talk to you later, Hakim. I shouldn’t need you until you get out of the hospital._

“All right. Thank you.’

Haddock looked up at Sweetpea, who appeared to be talking to herself.

“How did you do that?” he asked, astonished.

“Um. It’s a miracle?” she said, as though it was obvious.

“I guess so,” he muttered to himself. Young recruits who had been half-dead a few hours ago showing up and healing was outside of his expertise. He could roll easily with most punches, but this was a pretty big one. “How is all this going to work, Hakim?”

“That’s a good question,” said someone from the door. Sweetpea’s head swiveled around and saw Sergeant Angua leaning against the doorway, her arms folded. Her eyes were narrowed, too. Sweetpea swallowed. Which was faster, she wondered, Sergeant Angua’s teeth or Sek?

“Relax, lance-constable, I’m not going to eat you,” said the sergeant easily. “We’re all glad to see you okay. Most code OOOs don’t end so well.” She raised an eyebrow. “They especially don’t end with the officer back on her feet after injuries that could kill a man. I’m a fast healer and even I’d call that quick turn-around.”

_Yeah, about that_. She elected to go for honesty, or at least partial honesty. Sergeant Angua would know if she weren’t telling the truth.

“I was saved by a god. Seven-Handed Sek. I--”

Sergeant Angua held up a hand.

“Hold on. I have the feeling that this is going to be a long story, and I don’t want you to have to repeat yourself. I’ll get the Commander and Dr. Lawn in here and you can tell all three of us.”

“What about me, Captain?” Haddock asked. He had pushed the covers aside and looked ready to get out of bed. A flicker of surprise passed across the sergeant’s face. One person getting healed was one thing, but two people? Two people was miraculous.

“I’ll--get one of the nurses to check you out,” the sergeant said. Her pause was only momentary. “Lance-Constable, come with me, please.”

Sergeant Angua turned on her heel and strode out the door. Sweetpea had to jog to catch up with her. Her feet were starting to get cold on the wood. Sergeant Angua glanced down at her.

“We should get you some clothes,” she said. “Hospital gowns can’t be good for a long period of time.”

“Yeah,” said Sweetpea distractedly. “Sergeant, do I still have my job?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I thought I might be in trouble.”

The sergeant stopped. “In trouble for healing completely after we all thought you died?” The sergeant shook her head and continued walking. “I thought you were smart, Hakim.”

Sweetpea flushed half with embarrassment and half with pride. The sergeant had thought she was smart! That established it, she was a sucker for blondes.

“We had a few questions that we were going to ask you once you were conscious,” Sergeant Angua said. “And now we’ve got...quite a few more. It was going to be in your room, but the commander and Dr. Lawn are waiting out here.”

She gestured to the space that she and Sweetpea had just entered. It was a drab-looking waiting room, complete with uncomfortable chairs. A tall, thin man with white hair was talking quietly to the commander. When Sweetpea entered the room the commander swore, and the man--had had to be Dr. Lawn--jumped up. He hurried over to Sweetpea and waved his hands around her, unsure of where to begin.

“Your shoulder--your side--your leg--how are you even walking right now?” He glanced over his shoulder at the commander. “This _would_ happen to one of yours, wouldn’t it, Sam?”

“Yes, it would, though to be honest this one has me stumped,” said the commander. “Care to explain yourself, Hakim?”

They all insisted she sit, which was awkward since the three of them continued to stand. Sweetpea started the story from the beginning. Like before, she found that talking about the Sto Kerrig Three was too difficult. There was just a block in her brain.

“They knocked me out, and I woke up in a closet. They--They--” Her breathing quickened, and she gulped out the words.

Commander Vimes and Sergeant Angua exchanged glances.

“Hakim, they didn’t do anything to you, did they?” the sergeant asked gently, much more gently than Sweetpea had expected. The kind tone made things even worse.

“No, they didn’t. I--” She put her face into her hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I can’t--”

There was suddenly a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. It was Dr. Lawn.

“It’s all right, Sweetpea,” he said. “Take some deep breaths. I’ll breathe with you. One...two…” Sergeant Angua and Commander Vimes waited patiently while Dr. Lawn helped Sweetpea calm down. When her breathing had returned to normal, Dr. Lawn said, “You’ve been through something extremely traumatic. You may be able to talk about it in time, and then again you may never be able to talk about it. Is it possible for you to say how you fought them off?”

Sweetpea nodded. She resumed with where Sek entered the story; things got easier after that. Vimes looked annoyed at the mention of a god, and continued to be annoyed until Sweetpea finished her story.

“I’m glad you’re all right, Hakim, but I hate it when the gods get involved. Though they’re going to be involved all the time, now, aren’t they? Damn. Are they always with you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Sweetpea. “Not in my head, at least. They’re keeping an eye on me in case anything happens, and they can take over my body, but--”

“What was that last one?” the commander interrupted.

“Since I’m an avatar, Sek does things through me,” Sweetpea said. Going over this again and again was going to get old. Maybe she could make Sek do it. “That means that they can use my body. I told you, that’s how I fought my way out of--out of the Three.”

“They can take your body over at any time,” the commander repeated.

“Yes. We agreed that they wouldn’t use me to do any smiting,” Sweetpea added. “If that helps.”

“Not really.” The commander sighed and rubbed his face. Sweetpea noticed him reach for his cigar case and then stop himself. “So they aren’t going to be in control all the time?”

“Not at all. They said that they couldn’t be. And I told them that I still wanted my job, so being an avatar will be just a side thing.” She saw the look on Vimes’s face and said hesitantly, “That is, if I still have my job.”

“What?” said Vimes. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Take the next two days off, Hakim--that’s an order.”

“Fine, sir, but in all this excitement nobody’s told me. Did you catch the SK3? The last thing I remember was beating them up, but I don’t know if they got away or not.”

Vimes smacked his forehead. “Of course, Hakim. You’ll be happy to know that all three of them were taken into the Tanty. The trial won’t be for at least a month. We can talk about it later, but I don’t think you’ll have to be involved if you don’t want to.”

Sweetpea’s heart began to pound at the thought of seeing them again, even in court.

“I don’t know if I can—I don’t want to make a decision right now.”

“And you don’t have to. Right now, Dr. Lawn will check you out and then your brother can come and get you. Take one more week at the Treacle Mine Road house and then we’ll be moving you to your office at Pseudopolis Yard.”

“Er, yes, sir,” said Sweetpea. Why were they moving her so soon? Her probation wasn’t nearly over yet, and if this...incident had proved anything, it was that she needed more training. What was the rush?

Sergeant Angua and Commander Vimes looked at her, and then at each other. In that look she understood. They wanted to keep an eye on her. She had a god in her head that could access her body at any time. She was an unknown factor; a potential threat, even. Better that she could be close where more people could watch her. Offler damn it. Did they think she was actually good enough to be moving up so soon? Sweetpea doubted it. They hardly knew her. Not even she knew how good of a copper she was going to be.

“Let’s go back to your room,” Dr. Lawn suggested. “From the looks of it, giving you a clean bill of health isn’t going to take very long at all.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wait for a chapter to come along for seven months, and then two come along at once...

The hospital clacksed Hasan and asked him to come and get her. Sweetpea could walk by herself, but she wasn’t offended. Commander Vimes had assured her that the SK3 were in the Tanty, but she didn’t really want to be walking the streets of Ankh-Morpork by herself right now.

Sweetpea sat waiting for Hasan in the lobby, her armor and clothes in her lap. Someone had been considerate enough to recover her new armor. She didn’t want to have to pay for that again. Haddock had been let out a few minutes before. The matrons caring for Haddock had given Sweetpea the feeling that they were mad at her. _Don’t come in here with your religion and take over our jobs_ , their eyes seemed to say. Was there going to be a lot of that? If she conducted any bricklaying miracles, she was going to put people out of work. The Construction Workers’ Guild was going to come down on her like, well, a ton of bricks.

“Hi, Sweetpea,” Hasan said as he came through the door. “There’s a troll taxi waiting outside.”

“Oh, come on,” Sweetpea half-complained. Taking a troll was a nice treat, one they could almost justify paying for every now and then. She handed off the heavier pieces of armor to Hasan. He tucked her breastplate under one arm and swung the other arm over her shoulder. He was being careful around her, but also trying not to be careful. The whole thing felt like when he would pick her up from guild school on the weekends and walk her home. Nobody had been on death’s door here, no sir.

Sweetpea was content to let Hasan relish his big-brother role. She knew that he didn’t resent her for getting a perceived “man’s job” while he did the feminine thing of fixing drinks. Hasan wasn’t like that. But all his fears at Sweetpea getting hurt on the job had manifest. She had assured him that it was going to be just a desk job, and felt somewhat guilty at putting through all this worry.

The troll was sitting down on the edge of the road outside the hospital. He was massive. All the taxi trolls were particularly large. Sweetpea and Hasan got into the little gondola strapped to his back. Holding Sweetpea’s armor on their laps made it rather crowded. These little boxes could barely hold two adults at the best of times.

“Ready to go,” Hasan shouted into the troll’s ear. The troll gave them a thumb’s up and stood.

“Where to?” the troll asked.

“Katmir Street,” said Hasan. “It’s a bit narrow, so you can drop us off on the corner.”

The troll began to walk down the street, swinging his arms and lumbering out of the way of carts. There was no city-wide agreement on what side of the street carts should drive on, just “wherever they fit”. It was no wonder the city traffic was so bad. City watch attempts to regulate speed had been contentious, to say the least. Sweetpea was glad it wasn’t her job.

“I clacksed John some of the details,” Hasan said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s all right. He should know,” said Sweetpea. “The commander gave me two days off, so I’ve got time to meet with him.”

“I suggested he come see you at the hospital, but I don’t think he’ll have to do that now,” said Hasan. There was an awkward silence for a bit. Sweetpea had always felt self-conscious about having private conversations in front of waiters, or cab drivers, or troll taxis. It was also rude to them to act like they weren’t there. All the clerks had to do a two-week internship in an office during their last year. Over the course of that internship, Sweetpea still hadn’t gotten used to people have confidential discussions right in front of her. Her discretion was assumed, but _still_. She didn’t need to know how drunk her boss’s aunt had gotten the night before, or who in the office was going out with who.

And now, Sweetpea realized, she was potentially going to have somebody listening in on her all the time. Her thoughts, even.

Hasan cleared his throat and tapped his head, to indicate the god inside Sweetpea’s.

“Does this mean you have to convert to Sekularism?” he asked.

“No, but I think I’m going to be even more involved in the church than most Sekularists,” she sighed. “Sek said that I could still worship Offler, but I’m going to have to meet their Mother Superior, probably meet with the people that believe in them. I don’t doubt there are going to be some problems. Sek chose a brown girl to represent them. That’s going to make some people mad.”

“Why did they choose you?” Hasan asked.

“Hasan, please—“

“No, really,” he pressed. “You don’t even know if they _are_ Sek. They healed you, but can’t any god or demon do that? And how long is this going to last? They could take advantage of you.”

“I have to trust them,” Sweetpea said. She didn’t want to tell Hasan that this was something she’d been wrestling with herself. “I may not worship Sek, but I believe them. And I believe in them. When they’re in my head, in my body, it’s like…” She waved her hands. How could she explain that golden light, the pain, the glory, the itchiness from the inside? “I know that they’re holy,” she said simply.

“Okay,” said Hasan. He didn’t say anything for the rest of the ride as the troll trudged his way towards home.

\-----------------

Sweetpea was plagued by bad dreams that she couldn’t recall when she woke up. Hasan had made the coffee but was already at work. Since it was her day off, Sweetpea set out making a traditional large Klatchian breakfast. She poured batter into a pan and made flatbread, rolled cheese in olive oil and sesame seeds, got out a bowl of olives, and ground chickpeas into a coarse hummus. It was around nine o’clock when she finally sat down to eat. She wasn’t sitting for long when Sek slid into her head.

 _Good morning, Hakim_ , they said. Sweetpea detected a yawn in their mental voice.

“Did you just wake up?” she asked through a mouthful of olives.

 _Long night of answering prayers_ , said Sek. Sweetpea couldn’t tell if they were joking or not. _Are you up to visiting the Mother Superior today?_

“I don’t think I’m mentally prepared, but physically, yes.” Sweetpea paused and chewed while she considered something.

 _You’re going to ask why I go by “they”,_ said Sek. _I can hear it on the tip of your thoughts. Better that you ask me than the Mother, she’d only get the reason wrong._

“Okay then, why not he or she?” Sweetpea asked. What little she knew about pronouns was from Dars’s passionate explanations, but that hadn’t included “they”.

 _Most of my followers would say that it’s because I can take the form of male or female to better connect to them._ There was a bit of weariness behind this statement. _What they don’t understand is that I don’t_ have _a gender. Gender is a human concept._

“You're a human concept,” Sweetpea observed.

 _Don’t I know it_. said Sek. _Look, from what I’ve seen from human societies in the thousands of years I’ve been serving them, there have always been people who don’t fit into “male” or “female”. Every race has their own version of gender. I’ve been waiting for the “them” pronoun to catch on for millennia. I actually chose an avatar a few centuries ago because they felt just like me: no gender. That one…didn’t last very long._

There was a new feeling coming from Sek: immense sadness. It was the sadness of eons, of every one of your followers dying and not knowing where they went, of loving humans who were gone in a blink of your celestial eye. Tears formed in Sweetpea’s eyes, and she took a gulp of coffee.

“You’ve had other avatars?”

_Many times, but you’re my first for a while. The nice thing about being me is that I’m worshipped by groups everywhere. I’ve been Morporkian, Sto Latian, Llamedosian, Uberwaldian…even Ephebian once._

“All white,” Sweetpea pointed out.

_Those are the majority of people who worship me, yes. You’re the first Klatchian avatar I’ve had. Offler had cornered the market on you, but these are the enlightened times everybody talks about. I’m not too worried about you getting attacked by other gods’ followers._

There was something else behind those words, but Sweetpea couldn’t quite articulate what it was. There was a “but” there, or something. Some kind of reservation that Sek had that they weren’t telling Sweetpea about. Every time Sweetpea tried to think this thought, to puzzle it out, it slipped away from her grasp until it popped like a soap bubble.

_So, after breakfast, to my temple. Do you like kids?_

_\-----------------_

Sek told Sweetpea to enter their temple from the back, through an alley that ran behind the Street of Small Gods. She was acutely aware of the fact that Sek’s temple was only one door down from the Temple of Offler. Luckily she didn’t have to pass it to get to her destination. Sek’s order, the Spiteful Sisterhood, ran a reputable school for young children and orphans out of the temple. Sweetpea could hear the shrieks of children a block away.

 _They’re just playing_ , Sek assured her.

 _I know. Being around kids scares me, though,_ thought Sweetpea as she approached the yard behind the temple. _I’m afraid that they’re going to die at any second, whether from being ill or just running off a cliff._

 _They’d need somebody to stand on the edge of the cliff and catch them,_ Sek mused. _That could be you. The catcher in the—_

“Ryan, do not put that in your mouth!” a booming voice commanded. Sweetpea walked up to a low fence that surrounded a yard full of frenzied children. One of the sisters, the source of the booming voice, was in the middle of the throng of children. She was a stout woman wearing a maroon habit, and looked like a kind version of the matrons at the Free Hospital. She had two children by the hand: a young boy, apparently Ryan, and a girl that couldn’t have been older than four. She had a wooden block in one chubby hand and kept trying to smack passing children with it.

The sister noticed Sweetpea and ambled over, pulling both children along. Sweetpea braced herself for the awkward questions.

 _I’ll handle this_ , said Sek. _I like kids, and I want to say hello._

 _Please,_ thought Sweetpea gratefully. She relinquished control, and Sek leaned casually on the fence with both their elbows.

“Hello!” said the sister cheerfully. “Can I help you?”

“Hi,” said Sek. “I’m thinking about enrolling my little sister here. I wanted to take a look before I made my decision.”

Sweetpea knew that Sek was lying. And yet they were so convincing that Sweetpea almost believed them. It made perfect sense. It just wasn’t true.

“But of course,” said the sister. “Ryan, would you unlock the gate, please?”

Ryan had messy hair and a shapeless maroon smock, but he looked clean and well-fed. He let go of the sister’s hand and came forward to open the gate. It was as tall as he was, but with some concentration he unlocked it and rode on the slats as it swung open.

“Get off of there,” the sister scolded. She beckoned Sek in and shook their hand. The handshake was slightly sticky.

“I’m Sister Francince,” the woman introduced herself. “Welcome to the Temple of Seven-Handed Sek. What’s your name?”

“Sweetpea Hakim,” said Sek.

 _Why did you say my name?_ Sweetpea asked uneasily.

 _I don’t want to reveal myself yet, not to these kids_ , Sek told her. _They’ll know soon enough and then they’ll be in awe. I miss kids. I’ve had a few, but I never got to raise them._

As Sweetpea processed this, Sek followed Sister Francine through the playground. Most of the children were Ankh-Morporkian and human. Smattered throughout were some Klatchians (possibly refugees), one or two dwarf children with wispy beards, and even a young troll that the other children were climbing on.

“We take all sorts,” said Sister Francine proudly. “Religion of the parents doesn’t matter, but we do have Octeday school lessons. You didn’t used to be able to opt out of them, but there’s a permission form you can fill out—CLARENCE LEAVE PERIDOTITE ALONE!—and we’ll provide an alternative lesson during that time. Monthly tuition is four dollars, but we have scholarships for low-income families. Here in the Sisterhood we believe in being well-rounded. We give classes in cooking, music, self-defense, first aid, and bricklaying; as well as the usual grammar and history lessons.”

 _I’ve got to learn about the bricklaying sometime_ , Sweetpea reminded Sek.

 _That is a very long story_. “Are you in charge of the school?” Sek asked innocently. Sweetpea knew they already knew the answer.

“I run the school, but the Mother Superior is technically in charge.” Sister Francine pressed a hand to her bosom. “Sek bless her. She’s been the mother since I was young, and we’ve improved so much as an order since then.”

“I’m sure Sek will bless her,” Sek said. If Sweetpea had been in charge of her eyes, she would have rolled them. “Is the Mother available at the moment?”

“She always is, especially in the mornings when we don’t get many worshipers.” Sister Francine gestured to a door that led into the building. “Go through that door, past the cloisters, and take a left at the T. You’ll come into the sanctuary. This time of the day she’ll be at the altar. Just go right in.”

“Thank you. You run a wonderful school here.”

Sek stepped through the door and shut it against the noise of the children’s screams. They leaned against the wall.

 _I’m giving control back to you,_ they said. _You should meet the Mother as yourself. You two are going to need to have a good relationship, and not just when I’m speaking through you. I’ve learned my lesson. There was a schism back in 1317 that one of my avatars may or may not have caused._

 _If you think so…_ thought Sweetpea. She wasn’t very keen on the idea. _I don’t think this is going to go well._

_I’ll be right here, ready to intervene if I need to. I don’t think I’ll need to, though._

_That’s because you’ve never experienced racism a day in your life_ , Sweetpea thought as quietly as she could. Sek and she switched places, and suddenly she was leaning up against the cold brickwork. There was something about Sek being in control that Sweetpea forgot every time. All her senses became dulled, as if her whole body and ears were wrapped in cotton. She wondered if Sek liked being in control because they got to sense more.

 _It’s the exact opposite,_ said Sek. _Taking control of you means I have to concentrate more of my powers on one place and moment. It’s quite limiting. I’m used to being everywhere, but when I’m in your body I’m only somewhere._

Sweetpea walked past the cloisters, which held a small cabbage garden. Because of city crowding most people didn’t have room to even stretch, but all the temples had been built centuries ago. Back then, architects didn’t have to worry about urban planning and were more concerned with flying buttresses and spires. She turned left at the T and walked towards a massive warped door.

“What should I say to her?” Sweetpea asked. “The Mother, I mean. What’s her name? You said you couldn’t remember. She might not believe me if I don’t know her name.”

 _She’ll believe you,_ Sek said breezily. _I’m 90% sure her name is Abagaila. Okay, 80%. Just introduce yourself and say you’re my avatar._

Sweetpea pushed the door open and entered a dark, smoky room. The sanctuary was lit by candles only. They illuminated walls covered in dark red drapes. The eye was drawn to an enormous copper statue at the end of the room. It had a human body with seven outstretched arms and a cat’s head.

 _Is that supposed to be you?_ Sweetpea thought with a giggle.

 _Oh, didn’t you know?_ said Sek. _Cats are my sacred animal._

Once Sweetpea took her gaze off the statue, she noticed that the sanctuary was full of cats. They lounged or sat on every surface; sleeping, grooming themselves, and looking at you like they would scratch you if only they had enough energy. Sweetpea hoped Sek didn’t sense this, but she had a natural aversion to cats. Her mother had always called them “demon animals”, but that might have been because she was allergic. Sweetpea didn’t see the appeal to an animal that thought it was better than you but acted like a baby.

“Come closer, my child,” said a scratchy voice. Sweetpea peered through the candlelight and saw a hunched figure by the statue. She stepped between the candles on the floor until she came to the raised altar. An old woman sat at a table, not old enough to be decrepit but old enough to be proud of it. Sweetpea didn’t have a lot of interaction with old white ladies, but she did bear a striking resemblance to the old women at Offler’s temple who would look at you like they just _knew_ you’d eaten broccoli that week.

“Are you—“ Sweetpea coughed. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. “Are you the Mother Superior?”

“I am. Mother Abagaila is my name.”

 _I knew it!_ Sek crowed.  _Not that I had any doubt._

“Are you here for spiritual guidance, my daughter?”

“No….” said Sweetpea. “I’m, uh, here to spiritually guide you, as it were. I’m the newest avatar of your god. Sweetpea. My name’s Sweetpea. ”

The Mother shifted in her chair. It creaked like it was going to fall apart at any second. “You shouldn’t come in here saying things like that, my dear. If Sek had a new avatar, I would know about it.”

“I could prove it,” Sweetpea said a little testily, “But I don’t think that would be good for either of us. I prayed when I was in danger and Sek saved me. In return, I said that I would be their avatar.”

“Oh, so you hear the voice of Sek, do you?” From what Sweetea could see of Mother Abagaila’s face, it was pursed into a prim expression. “What do they say to you?”

Sweetpea folded her arms. This woman was really getting on her nerves. It was nothing she couldn’t deal with, though. “They talk about their other avatars. They judge everyone I interact with. Not in an afterlife way, just in a snarky way.”

 _Oh, yes, this is going very well_ , said Sek dryly.

“If you did hear Sek, you would know that their voice is divine,” said the Mother. She folded her wrinkled hands on the table in front of her. “Do you have much experience with talking to gods?”

“I pray to Offler sometimes, but he didn’t choose me to be his discly representative.”          

Mother Abagaila rolled her eyes skyward.

“Oh, and she’s a Klatchian as well. Their heathen god isn’t good enough, so they have to take ours.”

 _That’s it!_ said someone, but Sweetpea couldn’t tell if she or Sek had said it. She was suddenly falling backwards out of control, and Sek slammed their hand down on the table.

“Listen, Abagaila. When I choose my avatars I choose them right. Maybe you should be asking yourself why you weren’t chosen. And Offler is a personal friend, so watch the ‘heathen’ talk!”

Sweetpea didn’t think that Mother Abagaila would be able to tell when Sek took over. But there was something in Sek’s voice, their eyes, the way they carried Sweetpea’s body…Sweetpea hadn’t seen herself in a mirror when Sek took control, but she was willing to be that she wouldn’t recognize what she saw.

Mother Abagaila’s eyes widened.

“Are you—are you really--?”

“Of course I bloody well am,” Sek snapped impatiently. “Every night you pray to me to protect the children in your school. Once you asked me to help your sister escape her husband, and help her I did.”

“That was you?” The Mother flung herself to the ground at Sek’s feet, but in a careful way so she didn’t hurt her joints. “Oh, I knew it, I knew it was your, Your Spitefulness!”

 _Of course she knew_ , Sek said to Sweetpea sarcastically. _I can read her surface-level thoughts, though. She’s overwhelmed to meet me. She genuinely loves this job and the people she serves._

 _Also she’s a racist_ , Sweetpea thought sourly. For her, that was a hard thing to excuse. Most Ankh-Morporkians were a little racist, but they did it in a casual way.

 _There is that_ , Sek admitted. _I’ll talk her around._ Out loud, they said, “Rise, Abagaila Merryweather. You and I may look eye to eye.”

 _Even remembered her last name,_ Sek thought smugly.

 _You did not, you just read her mind._ Sweetpea was starting to pick up on Sek’s tricks.

_You’re getting too smart for your own good._

Sek helped the Mother to stand. The woman flinched at Sek’s touch, as if their skin was going to burn. Either that, or she didn’t like the color of the hand that was helping her up.

“My avatar and I will leave you now, to contemplate your divine place in the world. Later I would like you and her to discuss how you will increase my following in Ankh-Morpork and around the Disc. She will be performing miracles with all seven of my hands in order to prove my might.”

“No one can doubt your might, O Sek,” Mother Abagaila said enthusiastically. “I will come up with ways to aid your divine plan. Bless your avatar and protect her. May she protect all of us.”

“Great, yes,” said Sek. “I’ll be in touch.”

 _Guess you did have to pull me out of that one after all_. Sek quietly gave control back to Sweetpea. She stared at her feet as she picked her way through the maze of candles and cats. _What was that she meant about me protecting all of us?_

Sweetpea was so focused on not knocking over a domino portrait of candles that she bumped into someone coming in from the outer sanctuary. He grabbed her shoulders so they didn’t both fall over.

“Sorry,” muttered a familiar voice. Sweetpea looked up and her mouth fell open.

 “Fittly?”

Constable Brian Fittly, out of uniform and wearing a suddenly very relevant seven-arm amulet, was still holding onto her shoulders. He gripped them tightly as he looked at her in astonishment.

“Hakim? What are you doing out of the hospital? You were half-dead when we found you. You really scared us there.”

“Uh, uh,” she stammered. “I—wait. You were there?”

“Most of the Treacle Mine Road watch house was,” he said. He looked at her strangely. “Are you Hakim’s twin sister, or something?”

“No, it’s me.” Her brain was racing. “I didn’t know you were Sekular.”

“It doesn’t really come up at work.” Fittly finally let go of her shoulders. He might have been an immature jerk, but he respected personal space. “You still haven’t answered my question. Did Sek save you, or something? Is that why you’re here?”

“They did, yeah.” Gods, this was awkward.

 _Let me try something_ , Sek offered. They took over, and stared levelly at Fittly. Then Sweetpea was back in control. Fittly’s eyes widened. That proved it, she did look different when Sek was being her.

 _Was that a test?_ she asked Sek.

“You—you’re—their avatar—“ Fittly spluttered.

 _It was. And he passed._ Sek was clearly impressed. _Has this guy given you trouble before? He’s a loyal follower._

 _As I think all of human history has proven, being pious doesn’t make you a good person._ Or cure your sickness, Sweetpea added to herself.

“But that must mean…You must’ve agreed to do it while you were dying,” Fittly said. He rubbed his lips.

"Yeah, Sek came to me when I prayed. Before—before you and the others showed up.” She wasn’t about to relive that trauma with Fittly here.

“And you agreed to it?” Fittly asked. This was wrong. He looked almost distraught. Was he upset that Sweetpea, a follower of Offler, had been chosen?

“It was that or be killed,” Sweetpea almost snapped.

Fittly grabbed chunkfuls of his hair. “Oh my gods,” he whispered. “You don’t know, do you? They didn’t tell you.”

 _Sek, what is going on?_ “Tell me what, Fittly?”

“Sek doesn’t take on their followers as avatars anymore because their avatars are always killed,” Fittly whispered.

 _No no no NO—_ Sek thought at growing volume.

 “People hate Sek that much?” Sweetpea asked hollowly. She couldn’t feel anything, and not like when Sek took over. This couldn’t be happening.

“Not people. One person, one demon.” Fittly looked around the sanctuary and clutched his amulet. “Skellius.”

“Who is that, the god of skeletons?” In her disbelief, Sweetpea almost laughed.

“He is the demon of distrustful deeds and small crimes, the under-prince of lies,” Fittly explained in a low voice, as if even talking about it in the sanctuary wasn’t safe. “Skellius and Sek have been adversaries since time began.”

 _I swear on my name I was going to tell you, Sweetpea…_ Sek was saying.

“Skellius gathers followers whenever Sek does,” Fittly was saying. “They battle every few centuries…”

A great wind was roaring in Sweetpea’s ears. She pushed past Fittly and ran out the door.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and update this more frequently, but no guarantees. Thanks to everyone for reading!

Ankh-Morpork was a lot more crowded these days than it used to be. Sure, it had always been the city that people aspired to live in (and once they realized it was too expensive, they were stuck there) but even more so now. Whereas the little towns in the mountains and the duchies on the plains were less accepting, Ankh-Morpork welcomed all races with open arms. Or at least, open hands.

Because of the crowding, it was a lot more difficult to run from one end of the city to the other. Sweetpea was discovering this as she hurdled headlong across the river and through the residential districts. All she wanted to do was go home and hide under the covers. But that wouldn’t help. Nothing would let her get away from this. Sek was inside her and she was stuck with them now.

_Sweetpea, we’ll get through this together._  Sweetpea knew that Sek could take over and slow her down. But they didn’t, and this made Sweetpea resent them even more. They were trying to seem nice. Well, it wouldn’t work.

“Bullshit,” Sweetpea muttered as she ducked beneath a 2x4 somebody was carrying. “There is no ‘we’ here. I don’t care what morals gods operate by. You took advantage of me.”

_I gave you a choice, Sweetpea,_ Sek reminded her.  _I knew you needed help and I offered to save you. I chose you for a reason._

Sweetpea skidded to a momentary halt and backtracked around an impromptu food cart market that had popped up. Damn the Push Cart Owners’ Guild. She took to an alley, pounded down a set of trash-filled stairs and was back out on the street.

“A choice?” she panted. “Between getting saved, or getting raped and murdered? That’s no choice at all. You only came to me because you knew I wouldn’t say no. You don’t give a damn about what kind of person I am.”

_That isn’t true,_  Sek said firmly. Sweetpea paused at the intersection between Attic Bee Street and Short Street. She always forgot which was the quickest way home from here.  _You think I’d choose somebody who wasn’t willing to perform miracles and do what needs to be done?_

“What, sacrifice themselves?” Sweetpea made a decision, cut across several lanes of traffic like a good Morporkian, and was off down the street again. This was a part of town where not a lot of business was done. The residents didn’t have enough power or money to repave the street, so the cobbles were old and broken. Sweetpea had to stick closer to the buildings in order to not twist her ankle. “Because not mentioning that part after several days seems like a pretty big oversight.”

_I admit that I was reluctant to tell you at first,_  said Sek.  _Sweetpea, I’m trying to be completely honest with you. That’s rare. I wouldn’t even be this honest with that old Mother in there. I understand that I’m going to have to do a lot to earn back your trust. I value that trust. We can’t work together to defeat Skellius without it._

Sweetpea finally reached her home street. This time of the day most people were at work, but in Ankh-Morpork somebody was always watching. She slapped up against the wall of her building. This was a predominantly Klatchian and Istanzian neighborhood, and the residents had made some effort to plant native flora. The only thing that could really be said to be thriving was a spindly acacia tree. The things could grow in relatively harsh environments, so the cracks in an Ankh-Morpork sidewalk was little trouble. The poor shrub had suffered somewhat from a lack of sunlight, but it was tall enough that Sweetpea could rest in the shade of its branches. There was a certain awareness that she had, even when Sek was there but not in control. If she concentrated, she could feel the tree growing, and sense the people in the building, and hear the worms trying to survive beneath her feet…

_I can’t lose another follower to Skellius_. Sek sounded about as weary as a god could.  _I just can’t. I thought I could try something different this time._

“Can you get out of my head, please?” Sweetpea suddenly asked.

_What?_

“You said you couldn’t be in control of me for too long. Well, I can’t have you in my head for too long. It’s too much for a mortal to handle. I feel like my brain’s going to explode.”

_Do you see that cat over there?_

“I...yes?” The cat was sitting on a low wall and gazing disinterestedly down the street. Like all Ankh-Morporkian cats it had to be scrappy to survive,  but still washed itself like it was royalty.

_Watch_.

Suddenly the cat sat up and stared dead-on at Sweetpea. Sek’s presence filtered out of her mind, and just as the last of their presence left, the cat hopped off the wall. It looked both ways down the street and sauntered over to Sweetpea. She caught on instantly.

"You’re the cat.”

The cat, a nondescript orange, joined Sweetpea beneath the acacia tree. Sek said from outside her head,

_I took the cat over, at least._

Sweetpea crouched down and got at the cat’s level. It met her gaze with golden eyes. Then Sweetpea understood. These weren’t just cat’s eyes. There was something else there, some kind of unknowable depth. Sek sat down with a little sigh.

_What that follower of mine said wasn’t strictly true. My avatars don’t always die. We’ve always defeated Skellius before--that’s why my religion is still around. Unfortunately the avatar usually sacrifices themselves at the end. But that’s up to them, not me._

“They do it voluntarily because it’s their religion,” Sweetpea said. She could understand that, even if she couldn’t empathize with it. “That does make sense. But you don’t want them to.”

_Of course not!_  Sek exclaimed.  _How do you think it feels to be in someone’s head when they die?_

 “Well…” said Sweetpea slowly. “Seeing as how I was in my own head when I nearly died…”

_Of course, of course, of course_. Sek pawed at their ears.  _Sorry. There was an avatar I had, around three hundred years ago. She was Llamedosian. A sister in my temple. I could feel Skellius gathering power in the area. The sister and I did so many miracles...people would come for miles. The followers of Skellius were based in a nearby mine. One night, they attacked the temple. The sister rallied her own followers and they protected her. She led them in prayer, which increased my strength. I sent Skellius back to Hell and he didn’t manifest for a long time after that._

Sweetpea absentmindedly rubbed the cat behind the ears. “So Skellius comes from Hell? As in, capital-H-Hell?”

The cat purred beneath her fingers.  _That’s right. He’s a demon. I don’t know why he’s chosen me in particular to antagonize. There’s not a lot I can remember from when I was a small god, so we might have known each other then._

“Are you opposites?” Sweetpea suggested. “He represents small crimes, you represent...I dunno. I maybe need to work on my pitch promoting you.”

_Yes, I think we’ll have to workshop that,_ Sek said.  _You have to talk me up even when I’m not here_.  _I represent the mundanity of life and humanity’s strengths. The cooking, the brick-laying, the writing--these are all mundane things that no other god covers._

 “You’ve got universal appeal,” Sweetpea. She wasn’t sure if she exactly believed this, but it helped to agree with Sek. She wasn’t sure if she had forgiven them, but Sek’s reluctance to lose a follower seemed almost...well, human.

_Universal, exactly,_ Sek agreed.  _Good, you’re getting there. And then there’s the helping, healing, and vengeance. Those are all things that other gods cover, but I like to think that they work well together in one package. I represent the order of life, while Skellius represents chaos._

“How did you end up with all of these abilities?” Vengance seemed awfully vague, and if Sek could do any kind of overall healing, they were almost ridiculously overpowered. Sweetpea wondered why they didn’t have more followers, and then realized that at any time, a worshipper of Sek could be drafted into a holy war. “Did a PR person write them up for you?”

_I don’t know what that means, but no. As far as I can remember, I used to exist as several different gods. The worshippers were all in different countries, but they were absorbed into an empire. As the different religions intermingled, I gradually morphed into one god and then gained consciousness._

“And when did Skellius show up?”

_That’s just the thing._ The cat’s tail flicked back and forth irritably.  _I can’t remember. I think I’ve always been fighting him._

“What’s his end goal, then? To end your religion? To kill you?”

_Ending my religion_ would  _kill me. Sometimes it seems like he wants to take my followers for himself. That’s always the endgame of gods. They want the most followers so they can gain more power. I’ve always been on the b-list of gods because I don’t offer my followers much in the way of an afterlife. I deal with people while they’re alive._

Ah. That would explain it, too. People didn’t want to think about the here and now. They wanted to think about how good it could be in the future. If you were promised paradise after living in the muck, and all you had to do was pray once a week? People loved that. That was why Io was so popular--and Offler, come to think of it. There was the promise of protection from demons and curses, a few vegetables you had to avoid, and then eternal happiness after you kicked it. Sek promised you a slightly better life while you were here, and not even they knew where their dead followers went.

_Don’t overthink this,_  said Sek. They began demurely washing their paws.  _I can hear your brain over-heating from here_.

Sweetpea folded her arms. “I wouldn’t go trying to insult me after you deceived me for your own ends.” She stood up. “Thanks for explaining everything to me, but I think I need a break. I’m back at work in a few days. Why don’t you check in then?”

The cat’s tail bobbed back and forth.  _All right, I’ll give you a break. But we’ve got to hit the ground running when I get back. I’ll be keeping an eye on you. If your heart rate spikes, I’ll know about it._

“So basically, don’t do anything exciting?”

The cat turned and flicked its tail as it walked away.

 “Wait--Sek! What does that mean if I want to have--”

The cat turned around the corner of a building and was lost to sight. Typical. Sweetpea leaned back against the building. Sek had tried to console her, but hadn’t exactly done a good job of it. They had no information on if Skellius was gathering followers already, or what the plan was to defeat him besides increasing power through worship.

Well, there was no use angsting about it out here. At least she could go inside and feel sorry for herself in the comfort of her own home.

Up in the Hakim apartment, Sweetpea sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. There was something coming, a great black wave threatening to crash over her. It wasn’t coming from inside her head. She could sense this. But you could let a wave drown you, or you could ride it to shore. Skellius was going to manifest no matter who Sek had chosen. It didn’t matter if he aimed specifically for Sekularists. This packed into the city as people were, there was going to be collateral damage. Better that she arm herself at the forefront of the charge, rather than be swept along in the chaos. She was a clerk, wasn’t she? And a watchman—that had to count for something. Who better to lead a religion of order than a clerk?

Sweetpea decided to let this be her last thought on the matter for today. She had to do something to distract herself. John had wanted to see her, hadn’t he? Sweetpea went up to the roof where an enterprising father and son had leased out a clacks tower. The entire neighborhood used it, but in the middle of the day it was quiet. Sweetpea gave the son Ramound a message for John, and sat watching as it flashed its way across the city. She waited a few minutes on the edge of the roof. Ramound wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He and Sweetpea played together when they were little, and she wasn’t surprised that he’d grown up to be a clacksman. He was always quiet and methodical.

“It’s okay, Sweetpea,” Ramound said after she’d waited a while for John’s reply. “I’ll bring the message down to you when it comes.”

Just as he said that, a tower a few buildings away flashed a message for their tower. Ramound turned back in his seat to intercept the message. Sweetpea tried to read it, but the lights always blurred and made her eyes hurt. She let Ramound write the message on clacks paper and then hand it to her.

_Sweetpea –_

_Working in father’s shop until hired. Off at 6 tonight. Dinner?_

_John_

Sweetpea replied that John was welcome to come over to the Hakim residency for dinner, as long as he brought some vegetables. She knew Hasan wouldn’t mind. Both she and him had so few friends as it was.

Normally Sweetpea didn’t like fixing huge dinners that took hours to prepare, but she had the time and company was coming over. One thing her mother told her that had stuck was that you went all-out for company.

Sweetpea’s cooking was so enthusiastic that she made way too much for the three of them to eat. John suggested they go for a walk while they digested, and Hasan offered to stay behind to clean the tornado of a mess Sweetpea had made in the kitchen. Sweetpea and John strolled through the neighborhood, talking about job prospects and gossiping about classmates. Sweetpea hadn’t told either John or Hasan about the latest revelation. She knew she would have to eventually, when people started trying to kill her, but she didn’t want to spoil this evening. The food had been good and the air was finally warm.

 “So, some news on the relationship front…” John said.

Sweetpea grabbed his arm. “Oh?”

 “The most muscular blonde man came into the store the other day to buy flour. So cute, really bashful. I asked him what he was going to bake and he said he was learning how to bake cakes. I told him he should bake me one and he said he’d give me the first edible one he made.” John looked down at Sweetpea. “Am I doing it right?”

Sweetpea threw back her head and laughed. “I would imagine the flirting for men is quite different. Women are always complementing each other, so I never knew if Chelsea liked me or  _really_  liked me. We had to drop some pretty heavy hints to indicate that we wanted to date. Guys aren’t usually affectionate, so it might be easier for you.”

They rounded a corner into a neighborhood that was slowly becoming more gentrified. Construction in the city was always a tricky thing, but improvements to the façade and interior of a building could be made. The middle class that had been in Ankh-Morpork for a while and was making money off new immigrants wanted places to live above the rabble. As if the housing prices in the city weren’t already bad enough. John was a city boy like Sweetpea, and as far as she knew his family had been there forever. He looked around with a dreamy expression.

 “I can’t help it. I just want to live here. I want to have a nice job and get married and have curtains and an expensive place and a husband who will bake cakes for me.” He waved an arm wide. “I want it all! Is that so wrong?”

They got some very odd looks from families going about their business, and Sweetpea tugged on John’s arm halfheartedly.

“Sorry, Sweetpea, I didn’t ask you. Is there anybody in your life?”

For some reason, a certain dwarf with a blonde beard popped into Sweetpea’s head.

 “Not…yet,” she said.

\--------------------------

Around about the time Sweetpea would usually be getting up for work, there was a knock at the apartment door. Sweetpea pulled an abaya around herself and got up to answer it. Standing in front of her was Constable Ironcrust.

 “Dars!” Sweetpea exclaimed. “How did you know where I live?”

 “Corporal Flint has your address on record,” Dars said shamelessly. “How are you feeling?”

Sweetpea leaned against the door frame. “To be honest? A bit messed up, emotionally. How much time do you have before your shift starts?”

 “An hour and a half.” Dars spread her arms. “My morning is yours.”

Sweetpea got dressed behind a screen, made some coffee, and fixed Dars some flatbread, all while explaining what happened the day before. Dars was suitably furious at the end.

“And they just—didn’t tell you?” Dars slammed her coffee back. “Can you maybe punch yourself in the fact the next time they possess you? No, wait. You don’t want to mess up that face.”

Sweetpea felt a warm glow inside her chest.

“Actually,” she said, successfully keeping her voice from cracking, “I was hoping to get information on Sek that doesn’t come from Sek themself.”

Dars finished her coffee and stood up. “I know just the place, if you don’t mind a little walk.”

It took Sweetpea a few minutes to figure out where they were going, but when they neared the sagging and complicated architecture of Unseen University, Sweetpea understood. She was mad she hadn’t thought of it before herself. She had been through school, hadn’t she? When you have a question you go to the library. She wouldn’t have thought that it would be Dars’s first choice, though.

“Don’t worry,” Dars whispered as they entered the library. “I know the assistant librarian here.”

Dars led Sweetpea over to a desk where a wizard sat, scribbling industriously. He was the most ragged wizard Sweetpea had ever seen. Everyone in the city had gone into the library at least once: whether it was to get out of the rain, see this orangutan people kept going on about, or on rare occasions find a book to read. Some of the wizards held public lectures on the more exciting bits of magic, and Sweetpea had been to a few of those with her clerking friends. But this wizard wasn't like the large, stately ones in rich red robes you saw around the place. He was scrawny, with a graying beard, fraying robes, and a battered hat clamped down on his head. It had the word "wizzard" spelled on with sequins.

He looked a little panicked when he saw the two watchwomen striding determinedly towards him. Upon seeing Dars, however, he relaxed somewhat.

"Hullo, prof," she greeted him. "This is my friend Lance-Constable Hakim. We're looking for a book."

“People usually are in here," he replied with what would have been sarcasm if it hadn't sounded so gloomy.

"Yeah, well, we need one on religion," Dars said. "Avatars and gods talking to mortals, that sort of thing."

"I might have one or two like that," said the apparent professor. He turned to Sweetpea. "Can you read Klatchian? You look like you're of Klatchian descent, and there's a bit of it in the accent."

"Yes, I can read Klatchian," said Sweetpea, who wasn't aware that she had any accent. "My mother taught me."

"That expands the field slightly. This should only take a few minutes, but if I'm gone for more than an hour send in a search party." He got down from his desk and slunk off between the bookshelves.

Sweetpea turned to Dars.

" _He's_  a professor?"

"Yeah." Dars smiled wickedly. "Of Cruel and Unusual Geography. He doesn't have any students, though, so mostly he works in here."

"How did you meet him?" Sweetpea asked as the susurrus of students and rustling pages swirled around them. To speak at any volume louder than a whisper would seem like sacrilege. Or, worse, it might bring down the wrath of the Librarian upon them. Sweetpea had never met the famous simian, but Haddock had tried to feed her some story about him being in the reserve watchmen.

"Oh, he just ran past me on patrol one night, so of course I followed him,” Dars explained. “He's incredibly fast, but I ducked down an alleyway and tripped him up on Elm Street. Turns out he was just...running. I mean, at first he thought somebody was chasing him, but mostly he said he wanted to stay in shape. He's got some amazing stories to tell if you get him drunk enough."

The professor returned with two volumes in hand.

"Here you are, Dars," he said, handing them to the dwarf.

"Back alive then, I see?" Dars teased as she accepted them.

"A herd of kickstool crabs went by but I managed to evade them," said the professor with seriousness.

"Are there only two books?" Sweetpea asked with some disappointment. She was hoping that there might be an entire section on mortals interacting with gods. If Sek had an avatar every hundred years or so, there had to be some documentation of it. Dars handed her one of the books. The title read  _A Walk Across the Desert: The Life of Prophet Brutha._

"That's the only one in Morporkian. The other one's in Klatchian, it's a sort of how-to guide." The professor/librarian shuffled his feet. "There's a whole set of volumes about the explorer Deathlyrock looking for the Lost City of Ee, but it was in Quirmian. Then there was one about the potato religion, but that one's in Old Uberwaldian and that religion doesn't have gods anyway."

"Wait—that means that you can read all of them," said Sweetpea, slightly surprised. This scrawny little man didn't look like much of a scholar. Then again, he didn't look like much of anything—especially not a wizard. He raised his shoulders in a semblance of a shrug.

"I have a gift for languages. It's the only present I've ever gotten. Traveling around the Disc several times has helped with learning languages too, though mostly I just learn how to scream."

Dars nudged Sweetpea in the thigh. "I told you he has a lot of stories," she whispered. “He writes a monthly journal about the countries on the Disc he’s traveled to. I’ve never read it, but I’ve heard it’s good.”

Sweetpea took the other book from Dars and read the title.

_When God Talks Back: By Asif Burhan_

“What’s that one say?” Dars asked. Of course, she couldn’t read Klatchian.

“It’s about talking to the gods,” Sweetpea murmured. She turned it over and read the back out loud. “’Are hyou hearing the voice of a deity in your head? Can hyou suddenly perform miracles? Asif Burhan guides you through supernatural possession and…’ Hey, this is perfect. Thanks, professor.”

Dars nodded and started to walk backwards away from the desk.

“Thanks for the help, Professor Rincewind, but I’ve gotta get to work. When should we have the books back by?”

“Two weeks from now, unless you want to get home and find an angry orangutan there. Bye, Dars.”

When they left the library Dars said,

“Now I feel better about leaving you alone. I hope learning things makes you feel better—I know clerks are like that.”

“Knowledge is power,” Sweetpea said a little defensively.

“Yep, you’re all the same. Nerds.” Dars didn’t say it maliciously; if anything, she sounded affectionate. “Take care of yourself today, okay? All of us in the watch house want to keep an eye on you, but I can’t do that when you’re not at work. Lock yourself in the apartment and if Sek comes back, you give them what-for.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Sweetpea said. “Not afraid to chew them out, no ma’am. Just an immortal being with vengeance powers.”

Dars tapped the books in Sweetpea’s arms. “You’ve got your own power right here. Take care of yourself, Sweetpea. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

They parted ways: Dars off to Treacle Mine Road, and Sweetpea back home. As she walked through morning traffic she felt that, for the first time since waking up in the hospital, things might actually be okay.

 


End file.
